


No Fear Beyond the Walls

by FlashingFire



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Post Azure Moon Route, spoilers obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashingFire/pseuds/FlashingFire
Summary: “Professor!”Seteth heard a shout bounce up through the staircase, and he became aware of hurried footsteps growing nearer. Dimitri.“Professor, Lady Rhea, Seteth, are you alright!?”It would be his word against the traitor’s. He knew who Dimitri would side with. His time was short. Seteth had eased up a minuscule amount to process this, and Byleth used this mistake to retreat a step. She was breathing heavily, but still she tried to speak poison again. “That’s not-”“SUFFER AND PERISH!” Seteth drowned out whatever Byleth had sought to convey and rained down sharp metal with renewed abandon.---A post Azure Moon story that jumps off from an open plot thread to explore Seteth's character. Featuring swords, wings, intrigue, doubt, and one man with everything to lose.Tags will be updated as more characters and concepts make their appearance. FYI, most relationship tags aside from Seteth & Flayn have a single chapter focused on them, with a few other moments elsewhere. The bulk of the Netteflix content is in chapter 8, for example.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Flayn & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc & Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 43
Kudos: 69





	1. Saint Cichol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maddy02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/gifts), [Paraselene_Spear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraselene_Spear/gifts).



> To Maddy02 and Paraselene_Spear, whose writings inspired me to give this kind of thing a shot myself. Many other authors also contributed to this, but you are chief among them.
> 
> Another shoutout goes to @HellyonWhite on Twitter, who created some [incredible battle Seteth art](https://twitter.com/HellyonWhite/status/1212091968140001281) that also helped this particular work.
> 
> I am always learning at whatever I do, and writing is no exception. Please do not hesitate to give me feedback - whether praise or criticism, it lets me know you care. That said, I do hope you enjoy, and if that is the case, I would be honored to receive a comment saying as much. It will help me to write more.

It had been over six years since Seteth had last ascended up the spiral steps of the Goddess Tower. The sound of his and Byleth’s measured footsteps masked the gentler climb of the dignified woman leaning on his arm for support, venturing beyond her chambers for the first time in weeks. Seteth spared another glance at Lady Rhea, appraising her for the dozenth time in as many minutes, on alert for any irregularity in her gait or subtle sign of pain. As always, he found unexpected strength.

  
She had been so agonizingly frail when the Kingdom army first rescued her from her long confinement in Enbarr. Even as he nearly wept for joy at the sight of his longtime companion and guide, Seteth had been crushed to see what she had been reduced to. Her model poise and radiant smile had all but vanished. Gone had been the serene authority and piercing gaze that could strike fear or cast it aside with equal ease. It had been replaced with a gaunt, tentative figure, starved of food and sun and hope and kind words and treasured company. He shuddered to think what Hubert and his ilk might have done to sap her warrior’s strength so thoroughly.

  
At the present moment, in the waning days of the Horsebow Moon, Seteth could tell her eyes still did not carry the same fullness that they once had. But her condition had improved, and color had returned to her face, and when she wasn’t resting she was smiling more and more. She had still been unable to receive much company for very long. The Blue Lions and what other young men and women had joined them spent considerably more time guarding her chamber doors than speaking to her. Catherine and Cyril were coping by immersing themselves in restoration work, something that also served to mercifully distract Seteth from his more fretful tendencies. Byleth had visited twice before reluctantly agreeing that there was greater need for rest than anything else. Even dear Flayn had stolen precious few conversations from Rhea during her arduous recovery.

  
So when the Archbishop had summoned him and Byleth, he had been elated.

  
Rhea intended to pass on her title, and her sacred duties, to Byleth. The professor-turned-commander had met this proposition with no small degree of skepticism, but Rhea had insisted that she had complete faith in Byleth’s ability to rise to the occasion as Sothis’ chosen hero. Seteth was also somewhat taken aback. He knew Edelgard’s ideological war would have just as much consequence on the church as the physical one, but for the Archbishop’s return to so swiftly give way to her abdication… He had a duty to question this decision, certainly, if for no other reason than to make sure it was not an idea Edelgard or Hubert or someone else had forced into her head.

  
In the end, Rhea would not be swayed. She had made her choice, and she assured Seteth that the choice was hers alone.

  
With this point contested but ultimately conceded, Seteth had to admit there was no one else better suited to the task than the stranger he had come to trust with his life. Powers beyond his own had assigned her a special place in the world, and if that place had now become the head of the Church of Seiros, then so be it. Byleth had taken her fair share of time to contemplate. Eyes concentrated on the floor, one arm folded across her midsection, her other hand to the side of her face as her jaw made small, pensive movements. Eventually, her arms dropped back to her sides and her eyes met her mentor’s.

  
“I’ll do it.”

  
Rhea was happy, and that made Seteth happy. More than anything else, he was happy that Rhea was taking the initiative, a sign that perhaps one day she would return to her former self. The three of them had risen early the next day, asked a tired but cheerful Dimitri to stand watch at the Goddess Tower’s entrance, and begun marching upward and onward towards the ceremonial space at its apex.

  
A thought struck Seteth.

  
“Lady Rhea,” he ventured, still careful not to let his frame waver, “After this ceremony is concluded and you no longer have your sacred obligations to attend to... Well, I shall ask plainly. What will you do?”

  
The dignified woman’s step did not falter, but Seteth detected something akin to uncertainty flash across her face for a moment. The expression passed before she turned a slight smile toward him to reply. “I suppose we shall find out together, shall we not?”

  
“Indeed. Regardless of your future, it is most assuring to have you with us once again.”

  
Rhea inclined her head slightly, the small hanging adornments of her headdress shifting with the movement, before returning her attention to their ascent. It was a different kind of response than the ones Seteth was accustomed to, the ones that brimmed with faith and confidence in what had to be done. But then, it was a different kind of Rhea that he escorted up the last flights of tower steps. They were all different.

  
The Archbishop, her advisor, and her successor emerged at their destination. The space opened up to the east and west with spacious floor-to-ceiling arches rather than humble windows. The rising sun filtered in through the east side, and despite the appealing Fall scenery Seteth couldn’t help but notice a modest guard rail now cast slender shadows along the floor. That hadn’t been there six years ago. He looked to the other opening and found a matching guard rail, making up in practicality what it lacked in opulence. Seteth gave the west rail an approving nod, pleased that future trespassing students would at least not fall off the tower as easily, and made a mental note to thank Cyril later.

  
His administrative satisfaction was interrupted as Rhea disembarked from his side and strode slowly but purposefully toward the far wall. Byleth followed a few paces away, and Seteth drifted in step with her after deciding Rhea was not likely to fall. The Sword of the Creator hung at Byleth’s left side, glowing softly with shades that mimicked the orange sky around the sun.

  
Rhea stopped short of the wall and, deliberately, turned around.

  
She looked to Seteth, who reflexively straightened his posture as she took him in. She looked to Byleth, who remained as silent and calm as she had been during their climb. Then she closed her eyes for several seconds. Seteth observed Rhea gather herself for one final duty before her life changed irrevocably. As she opened her eyes, she beamed with a pride Seteth knew she reserved for only those closest to her. She began to speak, quietly at first, but gaining volume as she proceeded.

  
“I thank you both from the bottom of my heart for joining me here today. I know the goddess smiles upon you both for all that you have brought to pass, even if she is no longer with us as she once was…” A pause. “...The flow of time has brought change. To us, to Fodlan, to the world. The Church of Seiros has resisted change for a very, very long time…” Rhea bowed her head slightly at this, lowering her eyes, “...and I, as the head of the church, bear that grave responsibility on my shoulders.” Her gaze returned to level. “And so I, Archbishop Rhea, with Seteth as my witness, see fit to pass on my role, my powers, my duties, and all else that follows the title of Archbishop to the goddess’ chosen, to Jeralt’s daughter, Byleth Eisner.”

  
It was a rather short speech - there would be time for more words at the official, public ceremony - but it said what needed to be said. Seteth smiled freely, proud to bear witness to Rhea’s strength, however diminished, and support her in what must have been a monumental decision. As she concluded, Rhea extended a hand towards Byleth. “Would you be so kind as to lend me use of your sword, dear Byleth? It is only fitting that the sacred blade be used to appoint you for your sacred purpose.”

  
Byleth drew her sword, took one step forward, and wordlessly ran her through.

Time froze for Saint Cichol.

  
No.

  
_Impossible_.

  
His panicked eyes absorbed the sight of the Sword of the Creator, protruding from where it could not possibly be lodged, stained with blood.

  
Rhea’s blood. _Impossible_.

  
His eyes raced from the blade to Rhea’s face, which appeared as haunted as it had been the day they reunited. The Archbishop’s eyes stared past everything in the tower. Her lips had parted in a wordless scream, and some part of Seteth knew the sword had punctured a lung. The hand that she had extended now made trembling contact with the outstretched arm of her attacker.

  
Her attacker.

  
Seteth’s perception of time began to gain its former rhythm, and he saw Byleth withdraw her sword from its gruesome socket. The sound… it was sickening. Seteth was no stranger to battle, to its horrors, to life ebbing away at the service of his own judgments and actions. But nothing could have prepared him for this sound. There was no chaotic din or subsequent foe to block out the reality of how the sword sliced back out of Rhea, an offense entirely too liquid, too stark, too intimate, too blood-curdlingly _purposeful_.

  
Rhea sank to her knees.

  
“DEMON!” Seteth roared with an all-consuming fury he had not known for centuries. He drew the plain sword he still kept at his side and instantly closed the gap between himself and Rhea’s murderer, who turned her attention from the wall by the stairs to engage him. He knew not why Byleth had been looking that way. He did not care. He did not care about anything but tearing Rhea’s murderer apart, and as he brought his sword down _hard_ from above his head to split Byleth’s, she raised her own in defense.

  
The sound it made now was familiar and unmistakable. Metal met bone within the walls of Garreg Mach, the reverberations echoing off the stones of the Goddess Tower.

  
“Seteth, please-” Byleth began, but the man cut her off with a cry of “SILENCE, TRAITOR!” and continued his assault. His sword hunted from every angle for an opening, rebounding time and time again off of the holy blade. His Crest of Cichol flared within him, adding vigor to his every movement. He swung for her head, but Byleth rolled underneath and to the side, reclaiming space that Seteth had hardly realized he’d been gaining.

  
“Rhea was- Ngh!” Seteth punished her attempt at words with a particularly ferocious slash, which Byleth had to step back from twice in order to absorb the force with her weapon. Seteth captured that space immediately and drove her toward the eastern arch. His berserk movements flung his hair back and forth across his face. The morning sun caught his sword every time he swung overhead, and if stones could wince they would have done so every time he planted himself to strike low. Despite his rage, the warrior in Seteth realized that his higher strikes were having more effect on Byleth than their lower counterparts. Byleth blocked everything - in fact she was always blocking or evading, never returning the favor - but she had to give more ground when his height advantage let him build more momentum with his attacks.

  
Seteth always had preferred delivering justice from on high.

  
He shifted his tactics, delivering a barrage of steel from above and searching, _hungering_ for Byleth’s guard to give way. Byleth dodged what she could, but Seteth angled his blows to make evasion more difficult. He continued to attack relentlessly, taking more and more risks, seeking to lure Byleth into a counterattack that would at least give him an opening even if it killed him in return.

  
“Professor!”

  
Seteth heard a shout bounce up through the staircase, and he became aware of hurried footsteps growing nearer.

  
Dimitri.

  
“Professor, Lady Rhea, Seteth, are you alright!?”

  
It would be his word against the traitor’s. He knew who Dimitri would side with. His time was short.

  
Seteth had eased up a minuscule amount to process this, and Byleth used this mistake to retreat a step. She was breathing heavily, but still she tried to speak poison again. “That’s not-”

  
“SUFFER AND PERISH!” Seteth drowned out whatever Byleth had sought to convey and rained down sharp metal with renewed abandon. He drove Byleth toward the west railing, where the sun would shine in her eyes. He swung not for the kill, but for position, though any of his attacks would surely exact a heavy toll of blood if Byleth let them through. Dimitri’s footsteps grew louder. He was tall and fast. Byleth was nearly up against the guard rail. Seteth knew now she was simply buying time until the man tipped the scales in her favor.

  
Saint Cichol swore a silent oath.

  
The man applied one, two more strikes to guarantee his victim’s position, then roared a feral abomination of a scream as he brought all of his remaining strength to bear, all of his sudden hurt, all of his impossible betrayal, all of his unbridled, unchecked, untamed wrath. His sword, the extension of his body and all of his emotion, dived downward in a sunlit arc. Byleth raised her Relic much like she had done when their battle began.

  
Seteth’s sword bounced off of the Sword of the Creator and uselessly over Byleth’s head, spinning away and into the deep chasm surrounding the Goddess Tower. Just as he had planned.

  
Byleth had over-corrected. Seteth had released his grip on his sword at the last moment, sucking out all of the follow-through that Byleth had meant to resist. Byleth suddenly found herself off-balance, with her sword too high, and moving slightly in the direction of Seteth.

  
Seteth lunged.

  
He had his hands free. With his left he formed a vice around the wrist that controlled the Sword of the Creator, and with his right he found the murderer’s throat.

  
“Professor!?”

  
Dimitri had arrived. Byleth’s free hand went to Seteth’s grip at her throat and she choked out a sound that, while it failed to produce any words, was as surely a cry for help as anything could be. Dimitri moved, but Seteth had already pinned Byleth’s back against the guard rail. Where minutes ago Seteth had given it his blessing, it now served as the one thing standing between himself and fulfilling his vengeful duty, as if mocking his erstwhile ignorance. It would impede him no longer.

  
“FALL, AND BE JUDGED!”

  
Seteth heaved himself up and over the guard rail, carrying Byleth with him into damnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. It begins! I currently have no idea how often I might post updates here, unfortunately. I had the whole of my previous work completed by the time I posted it here, so I have no experience with sharing an unfinished story. I do have a rough outline of, I dunno, half of what I want to write? Though the second half has some structure for me to draw from if you know which plot thread I was referring to in the summary.
> 
> Twitter: [@FlashingFire](https://twitter.com/FlashingFire)
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone!


	2. Saint Cethleann

It had been the only way.

As both combatants tumbled over the slim railing and began their headfirst plunge into the looming ravine, time seemed to slow for Seteth once again. The finality of his decision reverberated through every pore of his being. This was it. 

After everything… this was it. 

His eyes burned with rage and his teeth were bared and his Crest-bearing blood boiled over, but inwardly he lamented that this was the way Saint Cichol’s story would close. The Archbishop betrayed and dead. The Archbishop’s hope dying with his hand around her neck. Flayn fatherless. And he himself would leave this life far from the ones he loved. He wondered if his body would even be found, or if the river at the bottom of the ravine would carry-

Byleth freed her sword arm.

No.

Even with no ground to stand on, Byleth had not accepted the fate Seteth had consigned them to. He prepared himself for an ending even swifter and bloodier than he had anticipated as Byleth drew her arm behind her head to swing down on him, but he heard a peculiar percussive sound, like that of a misaligned spine snapping back into place at many junctures. Byleth swung, casting the Sword of the Creator like some kind of bizarre bone-adorned fishing line upward to where they had begun their descent.

Seteth let out a panicked “No!” as her plan made itself a reality, and for a moment Byleth turned her eyes from the extended Relic to look at him.

She looked sad.

It was the last thing Seteth processed before Byleth’s sword caught on something and unceremoniously braked her downward momentum. She let out a painful cry as her right arm threatened to separate from her shoulder, so abrupt was the success of her catch. Seteth tried desperately to maintain his grip on the traitor’s throat, but his fingers did not have enough purchase. They did not reach all the way around like Byleth’s hand encompassed the handle of her sword. All he did was flail and miss her leg before he found himself spinning downward alone, faster and faster, past the base of the Goddess Tower and into the depths below.

He had failed.

Fortunately for Seteth, his years of leadership, battle, and administrative work had finely honed a trait that would now come to rescue him. He had failed, yes. His quarry had escaped his grasp in the most literal sense. Justice was left unsatisfied. But with that aim shattered, Seteth immediately realized that he had no time to dwell on his failure. He had to prioritize, and his aptitude for this kicked into overdrive without a moment wasted.

First, he was falling. He could do nothing while falling. Seteth brought his fingers to his lips, commanded his lungs to open up despite his panic, and produced a long, shrill, undulating whistle. With any luck, he would stop falling soon, Otherwise, well… nothing else really mattered.

Second, he was now an enemy of the general of the Kingdom army, and no doubt he would be hunted as soon as Byleth was able to deceive her allies and spread her version of the events that transpired at the Goddess Tower. Dimitri himself had witnessed Seteth attempt to choke Byleth and then drag her off the edge of the structure. He had lost any momentary advantages he had, and he would be swiftly outnumbered if he attempted to seek vengeance on the traitor again. He would have to flee. Curses. But if he was an enemy, then…

Third, and more important than his own safety, Flayn was in danger. Byleth had targeted Rhea, and without him to serve as Flayn’s guardian there was no telling when Byleth would attack his daughter as well. Fear seized his chest, fear of an outcome he currently had absolutely no control over, fear that his only other remaining family would be snuffed out, and with it, his reason to go on living.

A beastly, familiar roar cut through his reverie.

Seteth had never been so overjoyed to see his steed. The chestnut-colored wyvern raced downward toward him, faithful to the call Seteth had issued in his most dire hour. The glorious animal dived closer, closer, in defiance of the assured death that rushed up to meet Seteth with every passing second. At last she was underneath him, and Seteth twisted himself to cling to her scales and anchor himself along her back. The wind that had buffeted his back now assaulted his face and berated his ears as he took in how dangerously close they were both getting to the bottom of the ravine.

“Up, Celestine!” Seteth commanded, and the wyvern obeyed before his words had run their course, spreading her wings and pulling out of the nosedive with uncommon grace given the situation. Seteth had no saddle or bridle to ease his perch, so he clung desperately to the naturally armored ridges along the back of Celestine’s neck, hugging the mount for dear life. It was all up to her now. They leveled out moments before they would have crashed into the river, so close to the surface that Seteth could hear splashing from the water that was displaced by the wind left in their wake. Celestine let out a cry of victory and soared upward, riding their momentum for as long as it lasted and then heaving her great wings in rhythm to move back toward the monastery grounds.

Priority one, check.

Now, Seteth prayed that Flayn was still safe and sound in her room. He had no idea how far Byleth’s treachery spanned, and every moment away from his daughter was a moment of agonizing uncertainty that gnawed at his stomach like rot.

After taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, Seteth steered with great difficulty as he and Celestine reached the building line of Garreg Mach. Any chipped palms or sore legs he incurred were insignificant trifles in the face of his current objective, but without his usual riding implements his ability to maneuver was sorely constrained. It was a disadvantage he could not afford to ignore. As he hastily urged his steed toward the monastery’s central building, he began calculating the risk of retrieving his spare riding gear from his office. And a weapon.

A glint of light the color of the dawn caught Seteth’s eye. He knew its source before he scanned the ground below to confirm it. It was the sword of Byleth, who was also running toward the central building.

Toward Flayn.

“Make haste!” Seteth exhorted, kicking his heels despite their lack of impact. Celestine responded by lowering her head and beating her wings more quickly, well attuned to the distress in his tone. She alighted on the Star Terrace within seconds, and before she had lost all her speed Seteth bounded off of her and bolted for the door to the building’s interior. It opened from within before he reached it, and a dark-haired young man stood on the other side of the threshold, beholding him quizzically.

“Seteth?” asked Cyril. “You’re back early.”

Seteth slowed his step as he neared Rhea’s devoted attendant. The poor boy would be devastated when he learned the news. Still, he counted himself lucky that he appeared ignorant of the situation, and that he might be willing to be of assistance for a little while longer.

“Ah, Cyril,” Seteth began, slightly irate at how much worry leaked from his voice, “Indeed I am. I’m afraid Flayn and I must depart at once on unexpected business.” He made to move through the doorway, and while Cyril stepped aside to make room, it was clear he knew something was amiss.

“Where is Lady Rhea? And where’s Byleth?” He glanced outside at the conspicuous animal standing on the comparatively cramped terrace. “And why is Celestine here without a saddle?”

What did he say to that? “They remained in the tower a while longer.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Seteth approached the junction of the third floor halls, speaking over his shoulder as he tried to contain himself to brisk strides rather than an all-out run. “Speaking of a saddle, please fetch my riding gear from my office. This is an urgent matter.”

Cyril’s face was hard to scrutinize, especially as the distance between them grew. His neutral expression could easily be misread as distrusting, but was that distrust genuinely there this time? What did he suspect? Would he do as Seteth had asked? He obeyed Rhea’s orders without question, would that loyalty extend to him when he needed it most? Would Byleth intercept him even if he did? Seteth turned away, all these questions and more bouncing off around the inner walls of his head as he turned into the left hall, arrived at Flayn’s door, and opened it without knocking.

“Flayn!” Seteth let out a breath he had forgotten he’d taken. “You are here.”

The youthful woman stood up indignantly from her bedside, where she had been fastening her shoes. Seteth counted the fact that she was awake and dressed among his few mercies.

“Brother! Have you no decency!? I have repeatedly made it clear that I do not appreciate these _intrusions_ , and... Brother, are you listening?”

He was not. Rather than respond to Flayn’s objections, he quickly advanced toward the half-empty bookshelf on the wall opposite her bed. From its far side he withdrew a spear, which the bookshelf concealed from the sight line of anyone standing at the door. Seteth turned to Flayn, who had gone quiet and rigid. Her green eyes widened as they met their reflections in Seteth, suddenly grasping the gravity of the situation, if not the context. 

“You are in danger. We leave immediately.”

“Oh…”

Flayn put up no further argument as Seteth grabbed her hand and hurried her back toward their waiting mount. Cyril had disappeared. To fetch his gear? To report to Rhea and meet tragedy? To tie down Celestine and interrogate him? Seteth steeled himself for yet another altercation as he and Flayn rounded the hall and burst out into the sunlit terrace, but there was none to be found. Cyril had evidently gone elsewhere.

“Brother, what is the meaning of this? What has happened?”

“There is no time to explain, we must escape before danger catches up to us.” Seteth tried to pick Flayn up and place her onto Celestine, who lowered herself readily, but his daughter shirked from his touch.

“What danger is there here at Garreg Mach?” she questioned, her untimely stubbornness starting to return to her. “The war with the Empire is over!”

“Flayn, please, we must go-”

“Why, brother? Why must we leave after all we have done to establish our home here?”

Seteth sighed deeply and raised his free hand to his forehead. Now more than ever he needed Flayn’s cooperation. He glanced at the hallway they had come from. Empty. He turned to Celestine, poised to carry them away at a moment’s notice. He looked at Flayn, fists balled up insistently at her sides, staring at him with heart-wrenching worry.

Saint Cichol relented. But he would be quick.

Seteth met Flayn’s questioning gaze. “Byleth has murdered Rhea,” he uttered, still not quite believing that those words reflected reality, “and I am deathly afraid she is coming for you as well.”

Flayn let out a gasp. Her eyes tore away from him, and she was silent for several precious seconds. Finally, meekly, she spoke. “Rhea is… The professor… Y-you are quite sure?” She hoped against hope.

“I witnessed it myself.” Seteth crouched and took her hand, speaking softly. “I am sorry, dear Flayn.”

Tears tugged at Flayn’s eyes as she grasped wildly for understanding. “But… But why? The professor saved my life, saved _our_ lives many times. Why would… She could not have… She is our friend...”

“Your bewilderment mirrors my own. I have no answers, I am sorry to say. But I have you, and I need you to come with me before-”

Seteth heard footsteps coming from the hall, and he whirled to attention, raising his lance and shielding Flayn with his body before he even registered who stood before them.

“You wanted these, right?”

Cyril eyed Seteth and his tearful companion uncertainly, holding a broad leather saddle under one arm and carrying a folded-up bridle over his other shoulder.

“Do ya... want help putting them on?”

Seteth lowered his lance in relief. “Of course. Thank you Cyril.” He muttered his thanks to the goddess for such a reliable young man, and together they slung and fastened the implements around the obedient wyvern. Flayn remained downcast, shivering slightly. As they neared the end of their task, Cyril looked to Seteth from the other side of the great beast and addressed him.

“Hey, Seteth.”

Seteth hoisted Flayn onto Celestine’s newly attached saddle before replying cautiously. “Yes, Cyril?”

“I dunno what’s going on, but it seems bad. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Bless his kind soul.

Seteth managed a small smile in spite of everything. “You have done me a great service already, but thank you for your concern.” 

He brought his foot up into the near stirrup and swung himself over the saddle himself, careful not to jostle Flayn out of the seat. She wrapped her arms around him for stability. Or perhaps more for warmth. He glanced down at Cyril one more time, who stepped away to make room for Celestine to spread her wings. Perhaps this was the last friendly face he would ever see here. Perhaps this was the last goodbye he could manage before Garreg Mach ceased to be his home. Perhaps there was yet enough time to-

Running footsteps reached Seteth’s ears. Coming from the hallway.

Byleth.

“On your guard, Flayn!” Seteth commanded, inwardly cursing his foolish tarrying, his sentiment gone and his adrenaline returning. “Up, Celestine!” came next, and as he tugged the bridle the creature turned away from the building and leapt over the short terrace walls and into the air. Seteth looked back and saw the traitor sprinting out of the hallway and into the sunlight, sword at the ready. When she saw them taking off, she extended her sword into a whip with that uncanny spine-cracking noise, which Seteth could distinguish even above the first wingbeats of Celestine. She swung.

A blast of wind magic sent Byleth’s strike careening off course, and they were away.

Seteth could not see her face, but he felt Flayn wrap her arms back around him, more tightly than before. Her face pressed against the cloth at his back, not caring how much sweat clung to it from the morning’s exertion. She was trembling again.

It reminded Seteth of the first time she had flown with him, many bygone moons ago. She was hardly much bigger than she had been then… but Seteth allowed himself a moment of pride as he thought about how much more courageous she had grown. It mattered not that she now shivered like a foreigner in a Faerghus snowstorm. She had saved them when it mattered.

Priority two, check.

“That’s my brave little girl,” he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. She squeezed him once in reply. Then Seteth turned his full attention back to their final task of escaping.

He would have preferred not to see Ingrid and Sylvain riding to meet them in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my knowledge, the game never specifies where Seteth or Flayn actually sleep, so I have made an executive decision that their rooms are on the third floor of the main monastery building like Rhea's.
> 
> Man, pacing is hard. Seteth is only freaking out slightly less than last chapter, and adding the right amount of inner dialogue and character interaction without cheapening his desire to GET FLAYN THE HECK AWAY is a tough line to walk. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! More characters will be entering the story soon so we'll see how well I manage that juggling act.
> 
> Also, the name of Seteth's wyvern comes from [this cute little comic](https://www.reddit.com/r/fireemblem/comments/gaz08b/hall_monitor_lizard_pasha_saga_2/) by Reddit user RisingSunfish!
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone!


	3. Duty

“So help me, Sylvain, if you don’t open this door in ten seconds then I’m going to open it for you. Ten… nine…”

Ingrid wondered how far she’d make it down the countdown this time. There were a million and one things she’d rather be doing than badgering Sylvain out of bed like he was a pre-pubescent school child, but threatening to rip the door to his room off had proven to be the most effective way to spur him to action. It was no secret that he hated being stuck with morning sky watch duty, but Byleth had caught on with annoying speed to how Ingrid was able to rouse her classmate to the task. Despite her complaints, they’d been paired up for the shift ever since.

“Eight… seven…”

Ingrid crossed her arms. She didn’t think Sylvain cared too much for the door. No, he just got a kick out of goading her. He never opened the door before she got to Five, and sometimes she swore he made as much noise as possible while snapping his pants into place just to get on her nerves. It was a game at this point, and Ingrid was more than capable of playing fast and loose with the rules as the situation called for it.

“Six… _three_ …”

Ingrid heard a sudden scuffle behind Sylvain’s door, followed by the muffled sounds of several light objects hitting the floor. She grinned despite herself. Okay, maybe he did care about the door just a little bit.

“Two… one…”

Ingrid opened up her stance and planted one foot back with enough force to be heard through the door (and hopefully give that sluggard another fright). She knew that he knew she would have no trouble delivering on her threat.

“Zero. Stand back Sylvain!”

Ingrid raised her back foot, shifting her weight forward through the other leg, and set her sights on the space right next to the doorknob…

...which clicked, rotated and darted away as Sylvain yanked the wooden slab back.

Both parties adjusted quickly. Ingrid reined in the kick she didn’t get to let loose (along her disappointment that she wouldn’t get to see Sylvain’s reaction), and set her foot down. Syvlain had wisely shrunk back from the line of fire with his door opening motion, but once he realized he was not in danger of getting a boot imprinted on his loosely hanging white undershirt, he lounged across the doorway and leaned one sizable forearm up against its border.

“Hey Ingrid,” he tossed out with a practiced, carefree smile. “Need some help counting? You didn’t have to come all this way just to ask for my assistance, you know.”

Ingrid put a hand on her hip with practiced disappointment. “Maybe you should get your armor on before you do any strenuous arithmetic. You could hurt yourself.”

Sylvain put the back of his right hand to his forehead dramatically and tilted backward, feigning injury. “My dearest Ingrid! Your doubt stings, but your concern for my well-being is fire and shelter in an endless blizzard. For you and you alone, I shall stay well away from any danger.”

No sooner had Sylvain spoken this than he rebounded off the doorframe, _twirled_ like some kind of homeless street performer, and shut the door again with his final rotation. His parting shot was dampened by the wood barrier. “Don’t trip while you’re flying, okay?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes so hard she was pretty sure Syvlain could hear them spin. “Drama queen.”

She opened the door again unceremoniously (he forgot to lock it, or hadn’t cared to) and was met with the sight of the red-haired clown hunched over, picking up the objects that had spilled onto the floorboards during the earlier commotion. She spotted small bottles with varying amounts of ink, and parchment marked with Sylvain’s remarkably neat script. He had always had terrific penmanship for all the wrong reasons.

“Please don’t tell me you were writing your next batch of pick-up lines.”

Sylvain stood up, arms full, and smirked his stupid roguish smirk. “I was just looking for a practice partner.”

Ingrid punched him on the arm hard enough to jostle one of the empty ink bottles out of Sylvain’s arms and onto his bed. “I’ll see you at the stables in a few. We’ll see how confident you are in your silver tongue when your target is armed.”

Sylvain chuckled as she walked back out. “I guess I really will need my armor then. I’ll see you there.”

Satisfied, Ingrid shut his door gently. It had seen enough abuse for today. Sylvain would be late, but he’d be there, and that was victory enough. Ingrid ambled back along the upper hallway of Garreg Mach’s student living quarters, intent on arriving at the stables on time despite her flying partner’s antics. The night guards would be meeting her there soon. One short flight of stairs later, she emerged into the crisp Horsebow Moon morning.

She had no time to admire it. Ingrid heard a distant burst of splintering wood, followed by a roar as a massive wyvern took flight from what must have been the stables. Surprised, Ingrid watched the great beast fly northwest, each wingbeat sending a low, rumbling _woosh_ through the otherwise tranquil air. It was in a hurry.

“Ingrid, what’s going on?” Ingrid turned and saw Sylvain’s mess of red hair poking out from his window. “That was Celestine, wasn’t it? Without Seteth?”

She’d been thinking the same thing. “I don’t know,” Ingrid yelled back, “But I’m going to find out. Hurry yourself up!” 

The redhead disappeared back inside his room, presumably to actually get his armor on, and Ingrid took off past the greenhouse, past the fishing pond, up the path to the stables. She took the steps along the way three at a time, rounded the corner of the horse sheds, and sped towards the barn house where the flying mounts were kept. She heard the ruckus before she saw it, wyverns and pegasi shifting and vocalizing with agitation within their pens. The smell of hay and stout equines and musky reptilians also carried a sort of fear odor that Ingrid had learned to recognize over her many years among animals. Something was definitely wrong.

As she made it to the front of the barn house, Ingrid was instantly confronted with the barn door, smashed into pieces along the ground in front of her. She slowed just enough to avoid the fragments, then made it inside to assess any further damage. A quick scan revealed no other gaping holes, but there was indeed a conspicuous amount of broken wood and missing wyvern at Celestine’s resting place toward the rear of the building. The din of whinnies and roars and the lone stable hand trying to calm the madness crashed into her from all sides, but she singled out one of the animals and ran over through the central lane to calm her down.

“Easy Anadlu, easy! I’m here now, it’s okay…”

The snow-colored pegasus shuffled in place uncertainly for a few moments before recognition dawned and she leaned her long snout toward her rider. Ingrid’s hand met Anadlu halfway and stroked slowly, calmly, down the animal’s face. Once the creature was sufficiently still, Ingrid called out to the stable hand - Cedric, was it?

“Cedric, what happened here, where did Celestine run off to?”

The middle-aged man with a vexing amount of grey streaks in his jagged brown hair was gruff in his reply. “Hell if I know!”

Cedric gave up on his current effort and jogged over to Ingrid to converse without having to yell quite as loud. He wiped his hands on his smock as he approached, and his thick facial hair stretched to and fro as he talked. “One minute I’m makin’ my feeding rounds just as normal as can be, the next she gets an idea to break outta her spot and crash headlong through the barn door, bar and all! Never seen anythin’ like it before, no I haven’t.”

Ingrid frowned. That didn’t tell her anything she hadn’t figured out on her own, really. “I see. Well, I should take Ana and see where she went off to. I apologize, but I can’t help here right now.”

“Aye, you do your part, I’ll do mine,” replied Cedric, and he returned to the unenviable task of attempting to calm over two dozen winged animals over four times his size.

By the time Ingrid saddled up her pegasus and led her back into the open, Sylvain, clad in armor the color of thick smoke, had caught up. She found him talking to the two night guards, who must have landed while Ingrid was inside the barn and all of its formidable noise. As she neared the group, she could make out a grim set in Sylvain’s jaw. An unwelcome steel in his normally playful brown eyes. And two lances leaning beneath one arm and against his shoulder. He nodded as the distance between them closed, and Ingrid caught a single word, the final one of the conversation: “Understood.”

The two guard women made towards the barn to rest their pegasi after a night of vigilance, passing by Ingrid silently. She stopped a couple of paces short of Sylvain, who still had not looked in her direction despite the obvious approach of her and her steed. Something was definitely, assuredly wrong.

“What news?” Ingrid ventured.

“Nothing good,” Sylvain exhaled. He looked at Ingrid with the gravity of an executioner and tossed her a lance, which she caught deftly. “Seteth has gone rogue and Dimitri has ordered us to capture him immediately.”

“Excuse me?” Ingrid managed, not believing her ears.

Sylvain said nothing more, but started striding intently toward the barn to gear up his own mount. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Seteth? One of the men who had practically kept their army together while Dimitri struggled through the lowest stretch of his life? Her most patient yet demanding flying instructor? The man who had taken time to listen and offer guidance regarding her own small problems about her future?

“Sylvain!” Ingrid called out. The man stopped and looked back over his shoulder. That same steel from before remained. 

“If this is one of your elaborate jokes, it’s not funny.”

Sylvain dropped his gaze downward and let out another long, slow exhale. “I wish it were, Ingrid. I truly do.” 

Ingrid’s heart sank. There was no trace of mischief in his voice. He grimaced and started running toward the barn house this time, shouting back as he did so, “Go ahead and take off, I’ll grab a net and catch up! Get eyes on Seteth! He’s probably going straight for Flayn!”

Ingrid took three deep breaths. 

_I am a knight of Faerghus._

_I can do this._

_I will get answers once we’re done._

She kept telling herself those things as she stepped into the stirrup and swung her leg across Anadlu’s back, gripped her lance tightly in her right hand, and whipped the reins with her left. 

“Up, Ana!” she commanded, and her loyal pegasus gained running speed before ascending higher and higher into the sky. A comforting wind rushed by her face as she steered her mount farther upward, toward the central building, where Flayn was likely to be. No matter what troubles ailed her at any given time, flying provided Ingrid such an irreplaceable sense of freedom. It tickled her hair and whipped at her armor and she met it with the same confident joy every single time. But today, the moment was brief.

She acknowledged that regardless of what Seteth was up to, he wouldn’t go anywhere without Flayn securely at his side. It took only seconds for her to confirm Sylvain’s suspicion. As Ingrid urged Ana higher to get a bird’s-eye view of the entire central building, she spotted Celestine’s chestnut hide covering a third of the Star Terrace, and three human shapes around it. The colors and sizes gave away Seteth and Flayn easily enough, but the third… it was hard to tell from this high up. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter though. The mystery person did not join the green-haired pair atop the wyvern, and it was clear enough that they would be taking off soon. Where was Sylvain? Now of all times would be a good opportunity to break his tardy streak.

She looked to the barn and caught sight of the second wyvern to burst out of the front opening that day, a light grey beast that Sylvain had christened, of all things, Wybert Serenade Dashington IV. Ingrid would have normally been extremely peeved to have that ridiculous name cross her mind again, but right now she could only be grateful that Wybert carried backup. Even with Seteth encumbered by an extra passenger, her stomach recoiled violently at the prospect of crossing lances with him.

_I am a knight of Faerghus._

_I can do this._

_We can do this._

Ingrid raised her lance skyward for Sylvain to see, speaking in a way that could be better heard through distance and wind. He mirrored the action with his own, just like he had many times before. She pointed the weapon toward the Star Terrace. Sylvain did the same. They flew.

Seteth and Flayn took flight with sudden sharpness mere moments later. Had their approach been spotted? Ingrid hadn’t seen their faces turn in her or Sylvain’s direction, so why did-

A glint of the dawn’s light reached eagerly toward Celestine and her passengers, only to be swept powerfully to the side by a bright gust. The glint arced away and then began to retract back toward the terrace, and Ingrid realized what she was looking at. Byleth had swung at Seteth and Flayn, and her former classmate had defended herself against her former professor. Ingrid’s teeth clenched and her stomach switched from recoiling to trying to escape her abdomen altogether. She had thought these impossible days were done for good.

_I will get answers once we’re done._

Ingrid pointedly averted her eyes from the terrace as she sailed over it, evicting all distractions of what came before or after. That did not matter. Right now, all that mattered was the present moment. The swift, powerful mount pulsing with energy and sinew and breath beneath her. The wind whistling across her face and by her ears and through her hair. The supple reins in her left hand and the sturdy lance in her right. Sylvain trailing behind her like a shadow, not currently seen but fully trusted. Seteth up ahead, Flayn’s anchor, glancing behind him and then veering northward near the cathedral. Away from their pursuers. The hunt had begun.

Celestine was an incredible specimen of a wyvern and a significant outlier in terms of speed, intelligence, and durability, but she had limits and Ingrid knew it. Those limits would be checked even further with two riders on her back, even if Flayn was hardly half the size of Seteth. Furthermore, Seteth might not be able to exercise his full mastery over the skies without risking Flayn losing her grip, and that was one of the few risks she was confident Seteth would not take at this point. 

There was little else to be sure of; Ingrid knew how fierce the man could be when his sister was threatened. 

Anadlu and her rider gained on their targets. Ingrid registered another look back from Seteth as he cleared the cathedral, then dove sharply into the canyon around it. Ingrid followed without hesitation, and within two seconds she perceived the now-literal shadow of Sylvain signaling his presence not far behind her.

Not far behind, but not close enough to assist yet.

They continued down past the rushing rock walls, watching for when Seteth would choose to aim away from the canyon river. He was bold, but he could not delay forever, and finally Celestine corkscrewed eastward. 

“Even!” Ingrid called over the screaming air, signalling Ana to break out of the dive early. First rule of aerial combat, the higher wing is king. She heard something faint from Sylvain’s direction, probably a similar call, still disappointingly far behind.

Seteth maintained a dangerously low altitude as he steered to maintain his course within the canyon, and it dawned on Ingrid that it would be difficult to attack him from above without crashing into the river herself. Still, Anadlu was gaining. There was only so much canyon - they had already turned south at the first corner. He would either have to fly out toward Zanado and more open skies, circle back toward the monastery, or pick a time to ascend early. If Ingrid got ahead of him and Sylvain cut off the rear angle…

At the next stretch of relatively straight canyon, Ingrid raised her lance again, this time extending her arm outward and maintaining the lance’s forward orientation. She looked down and back past Anadlu’s beating wings to see Sylvain respond in kind within moments. She thrust forward, then back, then down emphatically.

_Take him from both sides. Bring them down into the river._

Her flame-haired friend copied the motion. They had a plan.

Ingrid wasted no time. She spurred Anadlu to top speed with a quick “Make haste!” and steered the ever-responsive pegasus slowly downward as she did so. The three riders drew closer to the canyon curve near the southern end of the monastery. Ingrid was very nearly in front of Seteth, soon enough she would be virtually on top of him. It would be her duty to slow him down long enough for Sylvain to ensnare him, Celestine and Flayn in the net. She tried not to think about how complicated it would be to extract them all safely from the river. One step at a time. First there was the next westward turn, once that was clear then she’d be close enough to-

Seteth gave a shout and Celestine abruptly changed course, pulling up in the direction of Ingrid. The Faerghian knight lost sight of them underneath her mount in the split second it took her to cry “Up!” and hurry away from Seteth’s attack vector. But when she twisted to bring Ana round and find him again, she realized it hadn’t been an attack vector at all. 

Seteth had feinted at her only to initiate a tight vertical u-turn, rolling 180 degrees as he did so to avoid hanging upside-down at the end. Ingrid couldn’t even complete her own full turn within the confines of the canyon before Seteth was rising up and away, directly toward the path of Sylvain.

Sylvain was ready. He had primed the net at his side, and as Celestine completed her maneuver he cast it wide right in front of the wyvern, her rider, and-

Too late, Ingrid understood that she and Sylvain had made a critical error.

Flayn reached one arm out from behind her brother to blast the expanding net away, and Ingrid’s brain hardly had any time to process her alarm before Sylvain and Wybert flew straight into it and became entangled.

For one crystal clear moment, Ingrid took in the whole scene. The backs of Seteth and Flayn moved up out of the canyon and into the sunlight in slow motion, her quarry and duty escaping. Sylvain came close enough for her to see his panicked face as he descended, hands tugging at the net in vain, towards the bottom of the canyon.

It wasn’t even a choice.

Ingrid forgot what she yelled as she and Ana dived to met the wrangling red and grey, turning the blunt end of her lance forward and trying to get close enough to… but no, they had flown too low, the water was racing at them too fast, like a violent azure cavalry charge. Sylvain crashed into the river along with his flailing steed.

In a moment of foolhardy ingenuity and reckless loyalty, Ingrid aimed her mount to nearly kiss the surface of the river, tucking the back of her her inverted lance under her shoulder and leaning to aim at an exposed piece of thrashing mesh-

There!

The lance caught as Ingrid darted across the chaotic splashing, her pegasus nearly knocking her hooves against the struggling forms beneath them. Ingrid felt her right half yank backward _hard_ , and she lost her grip on the bridle and tumbled off of Anadlu with a yell. She still had the good sense to toss the net-covered lance aside and breathe deeply before plunging into the drink herself.

Ingrid emerged within moments, gasping for breath and searching for a familiar blur of red before she had finished clearing the water from her eyes. Relief flooded her harder than any body of water could when she recognized Sylvain’s long arms making heavy but productive strokes toward the shoreline. Ingrid swam for the shallows herself before the net got another chance to drag someone down to their doom.

They made it out. Breathing heavily, coughing staccato notes of fresh pain and treasured air, Ingrid and Sylvain trudged along the shore toward each other until they collapsed into a soaking embrace. Ingrid buried her cheek into his cold, wet armor and felt his warm, harried breath down her back, present and greedy and alive. Her own chest heaved and shuddered as the adrenaline wore off and her body reminded her that she too was very cold and wet. They stayed like this for a while, just reveling in the fact that they weren’t dead. Not dead. Still here.

Water droplets cascaded around them like rain, interrupting the moment and startling them apart. Ingrid whipped a glare at the source of the disturbance, which turned out to be Sylvain’s wyvern shaking off a layer of river water by twisting its wings and neck to and fro.

“Wybert! Buddy!” Sylvain exclaimed, sauntering over to give the fourth member of the Dashington line a hearty pat on the neck. “You’re okay, you big lump of coal!”

Ingrid couldn’t believe him. “Sylvain! I can’t believe you!”

It was annoying how tall the man was, because as he turned Ingrid was reminded of how she always had to look up to get past his stupid grin, which was well on its way to peak stupid. “What? Can’t believe I swam all the way to shore in full armor?”

“I can’t believe I saved you from a watery grave only for the first word out of your mouth to be the dumbest wyvern name in the history of Fodlan!”

“Oh really? Well, I can’t believe you’re wasting time on me when your precious pegasus is trotting away.”

Ingrid whirled around. Anadlu had found a spot of ground right behind her and was going nowhere.

She whirled back, sending more water droplets flying in all directions. Incredibly, the stupid grin had jumped from peak stupidity and into the clouds of the dumbass domain. Ingrid swore it was climbing higher even as she marched right at Sylvain with a torrent of “Useless, gallivanting, incorrigible, dimwitted strawberry shortcake pillock!”

At this last choice descriptor Ingrid banged an ineffectual fist against the steel shoulder plating of her infuriating friend. She left it there for a few breaths before sinking her forehead into his breastplate, exhausted. The war was over. The fighting was supposed to stop, wasn’t it? At least, for now? Why did she have to keep seeing people she cared about nearly die in front of her?

Sylvain put his arms around her again, gently this time. “Hey.”

Ingrid kept breathing, her string of insults forgotten, vanishing into exasperated and weary rhythms of in and out, in and out.

“Hey, Ingrid?”

Ingrid looked up, and this time there was no stupid grin. Just Sylvain.

“Yes?”

“I’m… Ah, well…”

Sylvain cleared his throat and tested something in his mouth before finding his words.

“I’m okay. Thanks to you. So, um… thanks. And, I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Ingrid softened her expression. Then she rocked her forehead back into Sylvain’s armor and gave his shoulder two more light thumps.

Still here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got stuck on part of this chapter and had some other stuff going on irl, hence the much wider gap between chapters this time, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Dialogue between Ingrid and Sylvain is tricky but very fun to write when it comes together.
> 
> Btw, my headcanon is that there's a reason Wybert is the fourth Dashington. Sylvain has never been the most careful of fighters, and not every wyvern he's flown out with has flown back home.
> 
> I'm having a lot of fun with this! Expect more POV shifts as things progress. I hope they turn out distinct enough. 
> 
> Where have Seteth and Flayn gone? Why did Byleth do what she did? Will I plan ahead well enough to develop a coherent plot? Stay tuned as I hopefully answer these questions within a reasonable amount of time.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone!


	4. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that's a title change. That's a thing I can do.
> 
> As I've brought the scope of this work into better focus, I've realized that part of what I had originally considered writing will not make it in, because it's only supplementary to the story I really want to tell. The title change is a reflection of this clearer goal.
> 
> \---
> 
> While I do describe a seating arrangement in full this chapter, I thought it might be handy to provide a visual reference in case anything seems unclear. Please forgive the crude formatting, the position of the names is all that's important.
> 
> \-------Byleth Dimitri Marianne---------  
> Gilbert----------------------Dedue  
> Sylvain----------------------Ashe  
> Ingrid-----------------------Dorothea  
> Felix------------------------Manuela  
> Annette---------------------Alois  
> Mercedes--------------------Catherine------Balthus  
> Cyril------------------------Hapi-----------Yuri  
> \-------Hanneman Bernadetta----------

Yuri arrived at the Cardinals’ Room well before the appointed meeting time.

Observing how people entered these councils, and where they ended up sitting, had become one of Yuri’s favorite little activities during the past year. People were more candid before the proceedings officially started. For those willing to casually perch against one of the pillars outside the room’s central table like he did now, there were so many juicy inklings to pick up on.

For example, he knew Sylvain was most definitely not a morning person without him saying a word about it. That one was easy to gather from how often he showed up late to meetings scheduled before noon. Yuri had his guesses as to why, none of them very flattering.

Gilbert, by contrast, was the model of punctuality. Of the meetings Yuri had been to, he could count on one hand the number of times the austere old man had been anything other than five minutes early, notes at the ready.

Then there were the more appetizing details, like how certain people provided more insight into the state of the army than they realized. Manuela’s makeup was shoddier and less elaborate when the wounded were higher in number. Alois allowed him to gauge troop morale - the more painfully contrived jokes he threw out, the worse it was. Bernadetta’s presence signaled that something particularly serious needed everyone’s attention. Ingrid’s case was perhaps the most amusing, as her mood pre-meeting was almost directly correlated with how well-stocked the monastery larders were. She had eased up somewhat on her lectures (many of which were directed at a tardy Sylvain) once Fraldarius had begun sharing its supply of food. Somewhat.

The most succulent tidbits to track, of course, were the evolving relationships. Who sat next to whom, who brought snacks for someone who had trained through lunch, who people looked to when bad news shook the room. Who people trusted to get certain things done. Who jumped in to voice concern about someone’s particularly dangerous role in a mission. It was a lot to take in, and frankly, Yuri got so caught up in his people-watching hobby that sometimes he needed a second look at Gilbert’s notes before he remembered what he’d been there for in the first place. 

But it was oh so worth it. Information was power, and power wasn’t something Yuri liked to leave on the table.

...okay, that last bit was rather dramatic even for _his_ internal monologue. He just liked to know what was going on. It gave him and his people better odds of survival, that was all.

“So, whaddya think, pal? Good news or bad?”

Balthus, the veritable mountain of a man that he was, stood idly at Yuri’s right. He occasionally flipped a bronze coin that he’d managed to hold onto for more than two seconds.

“You’re telling me His Grimness didn’t already give it away?”

The only people that had arrived in the conference room before the two Abyssians were the future King of Faerghus and his taciturn devotee. Dedue stood watchfully behind his liege, seated at the head of the conference table, who appeared much more tired and brooding than any man deserved to be this early in the day. The morning sun was hardly halfway toward its peak. 

Nevertheless, Prince Dimitri sat with an intimidating hunch to his ridiculously broad shoulders, his silhouette amplified by the dark Faerghus fur cloak he wore. He rested his elbows on the table, gloved fingers interlocked and obscuring the lower half of his face. His only visible facial feature from this angle was a single searing blue eye trained directly ahead. Yuri ruefully thought he’d make a good storybook monster with a few more ominous shadows in the right places.

Dedue broke through Yuri’s artistic musings. “Kindly do not refer to His Highness in that way,” he spoke in his low, even tone, barely glancing in the direction of Yuri’s well-combed purple hair.

“Of course. My apologies, friend, I meant nothing by it.” Now was not the time to go for a tease, he’d figured out that much. Judging by how Balthus offered no follow-up comment, it seems he’d figured that out too.

Balthus flipped the coin for several minutes. Its metallic pings and his dissatisfied grunts were the only barriers against an ugly silence. Yuri was in the middle of planning the most crafty way he could snatch the coin in midair when the first group of approaching footsteps graced his ears. Finally, some life to the party. 

As if to mock Yuri’s choice in phrasing, Gilbert was the first to trudge through the doorway and toward the left side of the long rectangular table, his features drawn and stoic as ever. Yuri started a mental countdown from three-hundred. As he did so, he caught a rather rare inkling in the form of Gilbert’s two gently swaying arms. The man had no notes tucked against his side. Yuri deduced that this meeting had taken him somewhat by surprise, and this fact elicited a raised eyebrow.

Byleth followed closely behind. She passed Gilbert to occupy the seat at Dimitri’s right hand, while the orange-haired man took the next-closest chair just around the corner of the table.

The former professor was difficult to read thanks to how tightly controlled her face was at all times, which only ever made Yuri try more fervently. Today was no exception. There wasn’t much he could gather from her body language as she offered a few quiet words to Dimitri (who gave only the slightest incline of his head in acknowledgement). It was more telling that Gilbert leaned in to try and catch the whispers. It reinforced the idea that he must barely know any more about this sudden gathering than Yuri.

At two-hundred and eighty-three, Marianne glided into the room, followed by Ashe. They concluded their conversation amicably - evidently Ashe was interested in learning to take better care of horses - and then Marianne found her way along the right side of the table to the seat at Dimitri’s left. She gave the prince a concerned look, but the man gave no indication that he noticed. Yuri watched her gaze shift to Ashe as he sat next to the chair reserved for Dedue, asking a silent question. Ashe shrugged. Was anyone besides Dimitri in the know here?

Wordlessly, Marianne took one of Dimitri’s hands and entwined it in both of her own. Dimitri let it happen, closing his eye and taking a deep breath through his nose as he did so. Yuri never had been entirely sure what grounded their connection, but it must run extremely deep to have survived the prince’s feral days. He somewhat envied that intense solidarity.

Two-hundred and nineteen saw the arrival of a larger group. He heard Dorothea and Manuela chatting each other up well before he saw them walk in, evidently conversing about a pupil that the former Black Eagle was interested in giving voice lessons to. Dorothea’s eyes were bright and smiling as she stole a pointed glance at Yuri, who balked in embarrassment before chiding his own childishness. How silly of him to be weak at the mere thought of singing. Shoot, what was the count at now?

Alois, Catherine and Mercedes were right behind them. Catherine gave the big man a playful jab on the back of his shoulder, and Yuri was relieved to find something he could resume analyzing in the form of Mercedes’ serene but disapproving frown. What was that about? Alois let loose a quip about how he “guant-let you re-injure that shoulder, Catherine,” and Yuri didn’t bother suppressing a groan. Balthus chuckled, the nerve of him. It told Yuri that the two knights had sparred that morning and Alois had needed some healing afterward, but it wasn’t worth the toll. At least Alois stopped after just one pun.

The songstresses and knights all filled chairs on the right side of the table, while Mercedes headed to the left to bookend the four seats between her and Gilbert. One for each of the remaining Blue Lions.

Hapi entered next, stifling a yawn in classic Hapi fashion. What the rules were that governed the differences between yawns and sighs, he had no idea. He was just happy (curse Alois and his bad influence) they were there.

“Good morning Hapi,” Yuri offered. “Sleep well?”

Hapi went to the last of the seven seats on the right side of the table, the one closest to him and Balthus. She settled in and replied, “Morning Yuribird. Morning B. I slept about as well as I always do.”

“Heads or tails?” Balthus asked her, prepping his next coin flip on his massive thumb.

“Nope,” was all she gave back.

Balthus flipped the coin into the air and dropped it, and he muttered something under his breath as he knelt to chase the rolling metal behind the pillar. Hapi smiled to herself. Yuri couldn’t tell if this was her newest subtle magic trick or she just knew how to push Balthus’ buttons. It was amusing either way.

Cyril entered unassumingly as Yuri decided he would continue counting down from one-hundred and fifty. He sat down across from Hapi and next to Mercedes, stone-faced. More so than usual, perhaps? Curious.

A trio of primary colors came in not long after, and Yuri immediately noticed several conspicuous details about the Faerghian friends. First, Sylvain was on time. Early, even. This would not have been too unusual if Yuri was confident he and Ingrid had been on sky watch duty earlier in the day, but the second interesting detail was that neither flier was in their riding gear. They were unarmored. Third, and the tidbit that piqued Yuri’s interest the most, was the silence that they both shared with Felix. That was most curious indeed. What did they know?

After they sat down, leaving room for Annette between Felix and Mercedes as they usually did, Bernadetta stepped in tentatively. As if he needed any more indication that something serious was going on this morning. She quietly found one of the two chairs at the near end of the table, opposite Byleth, Dimitri and Marianne, close by Hapi. Her gaze flitted around the room, easily picking up on the tension present despite Dorothea and Manuela’s attempt to continue conversation as normal. Her eyes landed on Yuri for a moment.

He shrugged and gave her his best comforting smile. That’s what a friend would do, right?

To his relief, Bernadetta returned the smile as best as she could before returning to her own no-doubt spiraling thoughts, hands fidgeting in her lap.

As the countdown neared sixty, Yuri’s ears picked up the intermittent sound of a cane steadying brittle footsteps. By the time Balthus returned to Yuri’s side, coin triumphantly in hand, Hanneman was easing himself into the Cardinal’s Room, supported by Annette.

Gronder field had been a nightmare for everyone involved. The artificial fog had been thick, Dimitri had been at his most rabid, the indiscriminate spells and swords had torn apart friend and foe alike. Yuri could still remember sticking as close as humanly possible to Balthus, like a shadow, as banners shifted around them and orders from Byleth grew faint. 

Keeping up with the mad prince’s warpath toward Edelgard shattered most of the cohesion their army had attempted to put forward. The two Abyssians had taken to recovering stragglers from the murky battlefield. Balthus used his superior bulk and armor to clear space while Yuri kept his white magic flowing and his sword nimble. They had been among the lucky ones. Hapi still refused to talk about what she had to do to survive that day.

Hanneman had been less lucky. He’d correctly ascertained the source of the fog, a group of those mysterious dark mages led by Hubert. He had paid for his discovery with a critical leg wound at the hands of Edelgard’s second-in-command, and it was only thanks to the combined efforts of multiple expert healers that they had not had to amputate. Still, the scholar’s right leg remained all but useless. The muscles had decayed and the skin was scarred by unnatural purplish lines that traced his veins.

Annette helped lower him gently into the chair next to Bernadetta before taking her own well-spoken-for place between Felix and Mercedes. She could read the room too. Annette posed a quiet question to Mercedes, who shook her head. Then she turned to Felix and asked something that sounded similar.

The swordsman’s answer was low, curt and dark. “It’s about Seteth.”

Finally, some real information. Yuri took a moment to survey the room one more time as his countdown neared its end. From his vantage point against the pillar, he saw Dimitri at the head of the table, unmoving since Marianne’s gesture. Byleth sat to the left, and on that side of the table, in order, were Gilbert, Sylvain, Ingrid, Felix, Annette, Mercedes, and Cyril, with Hanneman roughly opposite Byleth. Marianne sat to the right (she looked like she was praying), and along that half of the table was a chair for the still-standing Dedue, followed by Ashe, Dorothea, Manuela, Alois, Catherine, and Hapi. Bernadetta’s spot faced Marianne. All conversation had now died out.

No Seteth.

No Flayn either, for that matter. For something that was turning into an all-hands-on-deck situation, those absences stood out like surface dwellers beneath the ground. 

Rhea was still resting in that cushy bed of hers, of course. The only other head to account for was Leonie’s, but Yuri knew well enough that she was off on some kind of errand in Alliance territory.

Three… Two… One… Zero.

Balthus flipped his coin several more times. 

_Ping_ , catch, flip, repeat. _Ping_ , catch, flip, repeat. _Ping_ , catch...

At last Dimitri put his free hand on the table and straightened in his... actually, hang on just a moment. What was that irregular indent on the inside of his right glove? He’d only caught a brief glimpse before Dimitri turned his palm downward, but Yuri could’ve sworn that-

Dedue took his seat with all the subtlety of a boulder rolling down hill, but none of its carelessness. Time to begin.

“My friends,” the prince began. “I am afraid I bring a grave report.”

Yeah, and Ingrid likes meat, tell him something he didn’t know.

“Earlier this morning, I went with the Archbishop, General Byleth, and Seteth to the Goddess Tower. I was to stand guard at its doorstep while the Archbishop conducted a private ceremony to confer her title and responsibilities to Byleth. A public ceremony was to be arranged at a later date....”

Dimitri’s speech stalled. His eye remained transfixed in a straight line. No one else in the room spoke, but Yuri detected plenty of shifts in posture, primarily from Bernadetta. The poor girl was frantically regretting her choice in seating.

“We were deceived. By the Archbishop.” That voice of his… it reminded Yuri of the shell of a man who had worn Dimitri’s skin for a time. The pain was palpable. “Or, rather, by her impostor.”

Oh?

There was too much to track as everyone in the room processed this sudden claim. Yuri realized that perhaps he should spend more time sorting through his own reaction. Out of old habit, his hand went to his head, part shield, part mask. He… he needed more details.

“Byleth will share what transpired at the top of the tower.”

All eyes except the prince’s shifted to Byleth as she rose from her seat to better address the room. She didn’t stand that much taller than Dimitri sat, but she was the last person to lack authority after all she had guided them through. 

It never ceased to amaze him that _this_ was the person they all owed their present success, their very lives. Not because she didn’t look the part of a savior - Yuri was wise to all kinds of veils people used to hide their purpose - but because… how to even put this? Because sometimes she hardly seemed present. But then, at other times, she was present to the point of tension, something she had an uncanny knack for resolving in her favor. It was an unsettling effect to grapple with, even if nothing about her actions ultimately gave him any reason to distrust her. Trying to pin things down further with words and reasons and all of his usual tools always wove his brain into knots.

She was present now, as she began speaking.

“The impostor led Seteth and I into a carefully designed trap at the top of the tower. She was not alone - there was one other dark mage lurking in the shadows. Perhaps using some sort of concealment spell. Rhea’s impostor kept up the act for a while, then asked to use the Sword of the Creator for a ceremonial act.”

Byleth paused just long enough for Yuri to notice her trace a circular shape on the wood of the table with her finger. 

“She attacked me with the sword. I avoided her attack, regained control of the weapon, and struck her down in return. I looked around for additional enemies and saw the dark mage, but then Seteth attacked me. He did not listen to anything I tried to say. From his rage, he seemed to think I killed the real Rhea without provocation.”

The room was as still as a portrait.

“I stalled to give time for Dimitri to arrive and restrain him, but he got past my guard and started to strangle me. When Dimitri cleared the stairs, Seteth dragged us both off of the edge of the tower.”

An audible gasp from both songstresses.

“I extended my sword and caught the guard rail before falling too far. Dimitri was able to haul me back up.”

Well, that explained the chipped glove. Leave it to Dimitri to just grab something sharp as a Hero’s Relic in order to help out the person attached to it.

“As he fell, Seteth called for his wyvern, Celestine. I suggested that Dimitri dispatch a team to capture him before he took Flayn and fled the monastery,” Byleth said as if she ever truly _suggested_ anything. “While he gave orders, I ran to intercept Seteth near Flayn’s quarters, which would be my only chance of confronting him again. However, I arrived too late.”

Cyril shuffled audibly. Yuri had just enough time to turn and catch his downcast expression before it returned to an impassive state.

Byleth continued. “Seteth took off, carrying Flayn with him. Our sky team gave chase, but the pair evaded capture. They were last sighted flying north. That brings us to where we are now. In summary, Rhea is missing once again, and Seteth thinks I killed her and has taken Flayn to an unknown location. No casualties were suffered, except for the status quo.”

She gazed around the eerie audience. “Who has questions?”

Several hands moved forward onto the table, a signal much less juvenile and tiring than raising them in the air. Catherine’s hand, however, virtually slammed down in front of her. It was she whom Byleth recognized first.

“Catheri-”

“How can you be sure that wasn’t Lady Rhea that you killed?!” the knight demanded, shooting up out of her chair and onto her feet. “You had better give me a damn good reason if you don’t want me to finish what Seteth started.”

The whole room tensed up. Yuri didn’t need to see Catherine’s face to know she was glaring daggers at Byleth. She didn’t have a fart’s chance in the wind of carrying out her threat given who stood between her and the object of her ire, but everyone knew that wouldn’t stop her from trying.

“Why would the Rhea you know attack me?” Byleth responded, straight to the point.

Catherine had no immediate counter. Yuri felt rather than saw the continuing glare, but she made no move. Then, “You’re reeeeally lucky she adored you, you know.”

She sat down, but not before adding, “But this whole mess stinks, and you’re in the middle of it.”

Cyril retracted his hand.

The room darkened slightly, and Yuri realized it was a result of several mages undoing spell preparations they had begun under the table. Catherine certainly knew how to spice up a party, he had to give her that.

Byleth seemed unperturbed as she addressed the next person seeking answers. “Mercedes.”

The gentle woman’s wispy voice carried an uncommon steel to it. “Who do you think was pretending to be Rhea? And why? She was with us for weeks before this happened.”

Byleth nodded. “An excellent question. You all remember the incident with Kronya and Solon several years back, correct?”

Now the whole room nodded, Yuri included. Of course. He could see where this was going. Curses.

“Both of them impersonated people that we thought we knew as well. People that we hadn’t seen for a long time. We even ‘rescued’ one of them, and she turned out to be… a mistake.”

Byleth’s eyes hung heavily at this. Remembering her father’s untimely death, no doubt. Yuri hadn’t been too close to the professor when tragedy struck, but he remembered vividly how it tore away what he thought he'd come to know about her. She wasn’t cold and constant anymore. She had grieved, cried, sought revenge, changed states. It had seemed to him as ice melting, or perhaps more like a tree in springtime, fighting turbulently to grow back what it had lost during the winter.

She traced a few more circles with her finger. Curious.

“In retrospect,” she resumed, “the foundations of the trap were set quite some time ago. One of their kind must have… assumed Rhea’s likeness before we reached Enbarr. Perhaps well before. We were so desperate to see her, it was so easy to overlook anything that seemed out of place… (It seemed to Yuri that Byleth was now musing to herself as much as she was addressing the group.) ...we let her rest, let her feign weakness, let her dictate who she saw. We made it easy.”

Byleth re-focused on Mercedes’ now sympathetic face. “As for why, I believe there was a primary and a secondary objective. The primary one was to kill me, which Rhea’s impostor attempted first. And the secondary one, from what I can gather, was to introduce precisely the confusion we see now, in the event that the primary objective failed.”

Byleth turned to another inquisitive gaze. “Felix.”

It was unusual for Felix to contribute to any council conversation that didn’t somehow involve him slicing enemies apart or making sure Annette didn’t get sliced apart by enemies. This time, Felix did not seem to care about what was usual or not.

“Why in the world would Seteth attack you after seeing the impostor strike first? I’ve never known him to suffer from short-term loss of sight and hearing.”

More of those cryptic circles on the table. Surely Yuri wasn’t the only one noticing this?

“Nor have I, Felix. But he called me a traitor and came at me with his sword. I can only conclude that he did not witness the opening strike. Nothing else explains his behavior.”

“That’s a bold conclusion to make about a warrior of Seteth’s caliber,” Felix noted in a tone that bordered on accusatory. Or was that his normal voice? Hard to tell with Felix, sometimes.

“I agree.” Byleth’s head turned. “Manuela, Hanneman. Are either of you familiar with any spells that dull the senses for a brief period? Something that only targets one person?”

Manuela shook her head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But then, I’ve spent enough time patching up dark magic wounds to know its effects vary widely. Tricky, icky stuff, that.”

Hanneman stroked his goatee. “I suppose… not that I’ve delved into the subject extensively, but…”

Yuri felt a joke about how Hanneman was literally leg-deep in the subject tickle his brain. He shoved his inner Alois off the steepest cliff his mind could muster.

“...the theme of dark magic is that it always causes decay. Entropy, you might say. It is not inconceivable that, with enough study and practice, that decay could be localized and masked such that-”

“Hanneman,” Byleth interrupted. “Are you saying it’s possible Seteth might have been affected by a spell?”

“Erm, yes, that is the concise version,” the man conceded.

Felix only gave a “Hmph.” of acknowledgement before settling back into his seat.

“Hapi,” Byleth recognized.

“So, where is this dark mage now? Captured? Dead? You didn’t say what they did after Seteth attacked you.”

“I don’t know,” Byleth replied. “Neither the dark mage nor the impostor’s body remained by the time Dimitri made it to the top of the tower. I assume they warped away while Seteth and I were battling; it seems he or she may have been there primarily to cover their tracks. As it stands, I have no way of proving that the woman I killed was an impostor, it’s just the only explanation that makes any sense.”

Hapi chose to study one of her fingernails as she responded. “I don’t mean to be more sour than I need to here, but...” She angled back toward Byleth. “You seem to be filling in a lot of blanks, Chatterbox.”

Byleth was impassive. “Like I said, I think that was part of their goal.”

Hapi went back to her fingernail. Byleth found another outstretched hand. “Gilbert.”

“Do either you or His Highness have any leads as to where the true Archbishop may be? Did your assailants give you no clues?” If Gilbert was worried, he concealed it well.

“None,” was the disheartening answer. “Most likely she is held captive by the group that laid the trap, but that gets us no closer.”

Dimitri remained silent.

“I see,” Gilbert grumbled, voicing the unhappiness of the entire audience.

Byleth’s eyes roamed the room for several seconds. It appeared as if all inquiries had been addressed, one way or another. “If no one has any more pressing questions, then…”

Yuri himself had become fairly confident he had the account straight, or at least, the account as they currently knew it. Ingrid and Sylvain had undoubtedly been the sky team sent to capture Seteth and Flayn, Byleth had just avoided naming them so they wouldn’t have to endure unnecessary attention. They must have gotten into a pretty rough scuffle to feel the need to change out of their armor afterward. One or both of them had relayed their tussle to Felix, which is how he had the scoop. Cyril may or may not have been involved, he could pursue that thread later if he wanted to. But there was one more thing gnawing at his gut, a disturbing but entirely plausible way to fill in the blanks differently…

With no table to lay his hand on, Yuri stepped forward, away from the pillar, and cleared his throat. Byleth’s bright green eyes found him instantly.

“Yuri.”

“So, Seteth joined your little party at the top of the Goddess Tower, didn’t see or hear Rhea’s impostor attack you, wasn’t blasted by the shady accomplice, and ended up throwing you off the tower into a steep canyon. That about sum it up?”

Byleth was following his trail, Yuri could tell. He could also tell she didn’t like where it led to. “Just about.”

Nothing to do now but finish what he started. “Have you considered that Seteth might have been in on the trap?”

The tension of that possibility hung in the air between him and Byleth. Yuri could feel the vivid gazes of several Blue Lions and knights on him. He would have loved to take in whether they were aghast or pensive or furious or some more tangled, sticky mess of emotions, but right now all that mattered was the face that met his own expectant visage from across the room.

“Do you trust me, Yuri?”

Damn she’s good.

“I do,” he nodded.

Mostly. 

Enough.

“Thank you.” Byleth’s shoulders relaxed, slightly. She really did care about this. “I trust Seteth, and I trust he is misled, not malicious. Besides,” she added, “he has never been gone long enough for me to suspect an impostor.”

“Well then,” Yuri sighed, leaning back against the pillar. “I suppose we had better lead our lost birdie and his little sister back to the nest.”

Balthus gave his coin another flip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... many... characters!
> 
> Don't worry, I'll be focusing on much more manageable groups of cast members in the coming chapters so that it doesn't take a set of meeting rules to present all of their contributions to the story in a sensible manner. But at this point I wanted to take a necessary break from the action to set The Stage (the original working title of this chapter) and sorta help frame who's around and where things are going.
> 
> Picking a point of view is continuing to be a tricky exercise. I certainly had my fair share of options this time lol. I chose Yuri because he seemed like he'd be the most interested in getting the full picture that I wanted to deliver here. Did his voice come through distinctly enough? Eh, I don't know, I'll let you guys decide.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone!


	5. Full

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, dear readers! Welcome to another regularly un-scheduled update.
> 
> I have taken it upon myself to come up with units of Fodlan currency. For all the worldbuilding the world gets, "gold" seems a bit generic, no? I figured I'd base the name off of something that would have been important when the Adrestian Empire was founded, so the basic unit is called a barr, after Enbarr. It's also sorta kinda a play on the word barter. Other monetary denominations:
> 
> 1 barrbit = 1/100 barr  
> 1 barrten = 10 barr  
> 1 barrdred = 100 barr  
> 1 barrgrand = 1000 barr
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Balthus peered under the long dining hall table in search of his favorite new bronze coin.

Boots of varying sizes and origins graced his vision, but no telltale circular light winked at him from the dim space. Just his luck.

“Hey, Yuri,” he called, not yet removing himself from his oblong posture. “Did you see where my little coin pal scuttled off to?”

His partner-in-crime sitting across the table took his own searching posture, leaning back to examine the space under the table.

“Sorry friend, I’ve got nothing.”

Shoot. Yuri’s eyes were about as sharp as they come. Ah well, it’s not like he wasn’t used to losing more consequential sums of money for more more exciting reasons.

The mountain man sighed loudly and righted his considerable torso, nearly dislodging poor Ashe from his seat for the second time in as many minutes. This time it prompted a response.

“Good heavens, Balthus, are you always so… animated?”

“Psh, come on, pal, of course not. You want animated?” Balthus punched the air like Yuri wasn’t giving him an eyebrow a few feet away. “Just watch the next time the Lively King of Grappling gets in a tussle.”

Balthus grinned at Ashe, who simply looked back at his food.

“Of course.”

Geez, what a downer. Balthus took another swipe at the meat sandwich he’d been working on. It wasn’t bad. Not exactly amazing, but with the right drink and another helping he imagined he could come close to satisfaction. It was a pity the kitchen staff had banned him from the wine cellar. He’d only ruined half of that particular liquor barrel and no one believed him.

He glanced toward Hapi at his left side, face decidedly full of meat and bread.

“You’ve got a couple of runners there, Hapi.”

Hapi broke away to examine her sandwich just as several saucy pieces of meat broke free of their restraints. At least one went the way of his coin. She accepted a napkin from Yuri before collecting the bits that had fallen to the table, still chewing what she’d already torn away.

Balthus chuckled, but in doing so he became aware of how much his own voice carried throughout the dining hall. He gazed ‘round to find most of his companions unenthusiastically chipping at their meals. Felix got up, having actually consumed his portion more quickly than Balthus (he didn’t have any coins to root around for), and left through the north exit to go where he always went.

They were all such downers.

“Sheesh, what’s gotten into everybody? We’ve got some good grub today!” Balthus bit into his sandwich energetically for effect.

Yuri raised two whole eyebrows at him before Ingrid opened fire from the adjacent seat.

“Wow, I don’t know, it’s not like _some of us_ are figuring out how to cope with a new conflict and three sudden absences.”

“Whoa there, little lady, no need to get yourself in a twist.”

“ _Little lady?!_ ”

A red and grey blur caught Balthus’ attention a few seats over, which turned out to be Sylvain making frantic slicing motions across his throat.

Balthus took the cue, but by the time he swallowed his bite and got out “Ah, what I mean is-” it was like throwing a handful of pond water into Ailell.

“Would it kill you to spare one _shred_ of understanding before spouting off your patronizing honorifics and playing at being a king of anything other than obliviousness? I’ll bet you have absolutely zero idea how dire it is that Seteth and Flayn left the monastery. We have no idea where they went, only the vaguest of search patterns to start from, _and_ Lady Rhea is still in danger. Is tact a foreign concept to you, or does the King of Irresponsibility not have time to do anything other than chase coins?” 

Ingrid was standing now. Balthus felt very small, and eerily reminded of Hilda. He looked to Sylvain, the closest analogue to Holst in this scenario.

Sylvain shrugged sympathetically.

“What I meant is…” Balthus floundered briefly, Ingrid’s glare not doing his mental faculties any favors. “Look, I get it.”

“Do you now?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I do. I may not be on the church’s good side, but I know a tough loss when I see it. We all know the impostor archbishop shtick is like finding crap in your porridge, but Seteth and Flayn… losing them is more like going hungry, yeah?”

Ingrid still glared, but not entirely at him now.

Balthus continued, “Seems to me you guys were close… It hurts my gut to see everyone so down about it.” 

Ingrid sighed and sat down. She looked far away.

“Seteth taught me how to fly. How to truly fly. How to find freedom. And Flayn is such an exuberant young woman, authentic and uplifting in spite of everything. They’re both strong, compassionate people. Knowing that they now view us as enemies is… worrisome.”

Balthus leaned in, sensing he now had a chance to clear the air. “Look… Ingrid, I didn’t mean to rip open a fresh wound. But moping around like it’s a funeral ain’t gonna change anything. I’m just... trying to bring some life back. Shine a light on the positives. We’ve still got food, drink, and plenty of friends.”

Ingrid sharpened her gaze at Balthus again. “That may be true, but you could still stand to show some sensitivity rather than trying to distract us from people _you_ never spent any time around.”

“Listen,” Balthus replied, a sudden idea striking him like lightning, albeit lightning that had to stop and ask for directions a few times. “You got me dead-on in some ways, but there’s one little detail you’re wrong about.”

“Do tell,” came the icy retort.

Sylvain drummed his fingers nervously. Or perhaps excitedly?

Balthus played his card regardless. “I do know a thing or two about Seteth. In fact, I know a good story! Gather round, ladies and gents, and let me regale you all with the story of how Seteth recruited the Adventuring King of- er, brought me here.”

“Seteth?” asked Ashe, who had put as generous a distance between himself and Balthus as he could politely manage to avoid the big man’s gesturing. Even still, he’d had to duck. “I thought you came with Yuri after the professor went to check on Abyss.”

“Hah! You think a brawler like me sat around underground for five whole years? Not a chance, little guy. This iron bod just begs to be put into action, and who am I to deny it?”

“Who indeed…” muttered Ashe, though the sarcasm was lost on Balthus.

Ingrid folded her arms. “This had better be some story… Yuri? Where are you going?”

Yuri stood, holding a tray with the remaining half of his sandwich. “To run an errand. I’ve heard this one before. Do me a favor though, Ingrid, tell me how many bottles he thinks it was this time, yeah?”

Balthus would have griped at this insult to his memory, but he was too relieved that Yuri had helped turn Ingrid’s anger into something closer to curiosity. He turned to set the stage for his audience with a flourish of arms and a waving of fingers, but a telltale wink of light caught his eye.

“Hey!”

It was all Balthus managed before Yuri and his prize disappeared out the south exit and into the midday sun.

Typical little magpie.

“Ah, forget it,” he said before his quizzical peers could climb onto his stage and muddy the act. “Anyway, so. There I am in the Oghma Mountains, a rough-and-tumble place for a rough-and-tumble guy…”

Ingrid groaned. “I regret this already.”

* * * *

Seteth decided upon the word “offensive.”

He stood before the sizable wooden front door to an inn that declared itself to be Fodlan’s Cheekbone, clad in a plain tunic, the bearer of a set of unusual instructions. But then, Byleth was rather fond of those by his estimate. As he stepped within arm’s reach of the threshold, Seteth had seen fit to take a deep breath to prepare himself for the kind of disorderly company that a man such as Balthus might keep on an evening such as this one. What he had failed to consider was that his preferred method of doing so was a full, robust draught of air through the nose. And noses also happen to be rather keen on smelling things.

The unfortunate, obvious discovery was a mix of bodily and non-bodily odors that Seteth initially labelled as “repulsive,” until he decided he would not be repulsed. He considered the term “foul,” but soon conceded that what he was smelling was probably rather common, perhaps even comfortable, to a certain subset of society. He was suddenly rather glad Flayn had not spent much time around Jeralt, and subsequently rather disappointed in himself for thinking so poorly of the former captain and friend.

At any rate, he conjured grim satisfaction from his dissatisfactory experience by giving it a proper name. “Offensive” was a term subject to personal expectations, but one that was no less legitimate as a result. It went along well with Seteth’s rapid eye-blinking and hand-waving.

He’d better begin the task at hand in earnest before he felt inspired to write a complaint to the inn’s owner.

Mustering a deep breath from the mouth this time, Seteth opened the door (Fodlan’s Maw, he mused) and stepped inside.

It took the smallest imaginable increment of time to locate Balthus. The more difficult task would have been to ignore the animated man at the center table, built like a racehorse and ten times as loud. He looked to be in the middle of some kind of game with a half-dozen participants, a game which featured cards and coins and spoons and a few other pieces he couldn’t identify. He hadn’t the slightest idea what the rules were, but he was fairly confident that slamming one’s fist on the table with a rattling of metal and yelling like a hooligan was not strictly necessary to play.

Balthus flew in the face of that confidence, of course. Slam, rattle, yell and all.

Seteth drew his attention away from the scene and walked unhurriedly toward the bar counter by the back wall, glancing around as he did so. The Cheekbone was evidently a thriving recreational hub in addition to a place of lodging. With western Faerghus having submitted to the Empire, there was little reason for imperial troops to pass through the Oghma region, and that seemed to serve the residents of the mountain communities just fine. Seteth also spotted clothing patterns from several other parts of Fodlan and perhaps beyond, worn by traders, refugees, couriers, all kinds of folk who appreciated an escape from the war.

Seteth had no such luxury. Not when the war had taken something from him. Someone.

So here he now took a seat, at an establishment he would never frequent, carrying out orders he could never have dreamed he’d receive, to retrieve a man whose help he’d never intended to rely on. At least he was acclimating to the smell.

“Can I help you?”

Seteth turned to face a grizzled Almyran woman cleaning up a glass behind the counter. Right, the barkeep. He had just sat down at a bar.

Hoping his face hadn’t seemed entirely blank while he processed this, Seteth replied with, “Cold water, if you please.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t miss a beat. “Thirty barr.”

That much? For water? Seteth questioned the business model, but he wasn’t here to start arguments. He slipped three coins from a pouch beneath his tunic onto the counter, and the barkeep whisked them away. Seconds later he found himself in possession of a glass of water that technically qualified as cold.

As he partook from the overpriced beverage, he looked back to the table where Balthus practically rumbled with the ups and downs of the game. The man faced the main door and not Seteth, so he gained a new appreciation for just how much thick black hair Balthus had grown in the five years since he last saw him. He wondered if much else had changed. Given how accurately Yuri had guessed his location, he was leaning toward no.

For all his considerable strengths, Balthus had a predictable set of vices. Sometimes his strengths _were_ his vices. On one of the few occasions Seteth had interacted with Balthus at the Officer’s Academy, he had been summoned to help break up a fight between him and Dedue. It had turned out to be less a fight and more the most bone-headed contest he ever had the displeasure to witness. 

Somehow, while Byleth and Dimitri were having tea, Balthus had convinced Dedue to take turns _giving and receiving punches to the gut_ , which he later learned was the culmination of a series of strength challenges that Balthus had concocted for himself, Raphael, and the prince’s shadow. Raphael had actually bowed out before that point, displaying a maturity that neither Balthus nor Dedue nor any of the dozens of spectators at the training grounds seemed to share. It was utterly crass. Seteth arrived to a cacophony of hollering and jeering and alternating war cries from the two dunderfists at the center of it all. His disappointment had been immeasurable.

Upon separating them, shooing the crowd away under threat of weeding duty _outside_ the monastery walls, and demanding an explanation, Balthus had coughed out some nonsense to the effect of “These abs don’t build themselves!”

Dedue had been more solemn. “I must ensure the shield of His Highness will never be broken.”

And what a faithful shield he’d been.

Balthus pounded the center table again, this time with a mighty groan. From the way the others gathered up the coins and other elements of the game, Seteth could tell it had just concluded. Balthus didn’t seem to be collecting anything for himself.

Instead, he did exactly as Yuri had predicted, and heaved his disgruntled self up and toward the bar. Seteth waited until the man had fixed himself with a drink, then slowly but deliberately meandered toward the space by his shoulder.

“Difficult game?” Seteth opened.

Balthus didn’t look at him, at first. “Nah, just a bad bounce at the last minute. I was workin’ those chumps most of the night.” He gulped down another swig of liquid Seteth wasn’t keen on smelling.

“I see. Mind if I join you?”

At this, Balthus swiveled his head. Took a pointed moment. Seteth saw his eyes shift with recognition, both at him and at the sword at Seteth’s belt, then he nodded at the unoccupied stool beside him.

“‘Course not.”

Seteth sat. Before he could make his opening entreaty, Balthus continued, in a guarded tone.

“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing you didn’t come all this way to lighten your pockets for a mug of water.”

Seteth gave a wry smile. Oh, the places he’d rather be. “Anything but. You guess correctly.”

“So then, who sent ya?”

How remarkably perceptive, especially with an unknown concentration of alcohol in his blood already. Seteth noticed that the looseness in his limbs had given way to subtle tension. He hadn’t experienced this side of Balthus before.

He counted it a blessing that he could get straight to the point.

“Professor Byleth. She wants you to return to the monastery.”

Balthus shook and let out a sound Seteth struggled to describe any more specifically than a guffaw. His drink sloshed with the motion. “Is that really the best story you’ve got, pal? Fat chance. She’s been gone for years now.”

“I was as surprised to hear of it as you are. And yet, when I returned to Garreg Mach to ascertain the truth, there she was, as if no time had passed at all.”

Balthus’ grin was empty. “I’m not in deep enough to fall for that one. What, you expect me to believe she just took a nap for half a decade and woke up when it suits your fancy?”

Seteth wanted to break something. He managed to calm himself with a sip of water and reply with, “I thought you were a man of faith.”

“And I thought you of all people wouldn’t confuse faith with stupidity,” Balthus countered with a wave of his arm. “Go back to my dear old stepmother and tell her whatever she paid you, it wasn’t worth it.”

The mountain man made to get up, but Seteth put a hand on his forearm.

“Careful, pal,” Balthus growled. “The last meathead to lay hands on the Vicious King of Grappling had his underbite forcibly corrected.” He leaned toward Seteth and closed his fist to underscore the threat.

Raphael was as sturdy as an oak tree with arms bigger than Seteth’s head, but he managed to appear entirely harmless as he walked about. Dedue was tall and imposing, but controlled. Balthus, on the other hand, seemed like he’d never met a problem he didn’t want to punch. And while Seteth was not so easily intimidated, he got the distinct impression that he appeared quite problem-shaped to Balthus in this moment.

It was time to carry out an unusual instruction.

“Would you care for a drink?” Seteth asked innocently.

Balthus didn’t give up any space, but the confusion was palpable. He glanced at Seteth’s yet-unfinished glass of water, then back to his hand, which still rested firmly on Balthus’ arm. Seteth pounced on the opening and placed several coins on the counter.

“My treat.”

A slow grin spread across Balthus’ features. He nodded, first to himself, then at Seteth. “It’s your lucky day, pal. You have my attention.”

Seteth let go of his arm.

He had to hand it to the professor, her assessment of Balthus had been uncannily accurate. Any sane person who saw a threat in Seteth would not be so easily swayed by such a simple offer, but Balthus’ vices could all be condensed into a single word: risk. If he saw an opportunity to take a gamble and come out alive on the other end, it drew him like a magnet. Fighting, drinking, games of chance, roaming the continent in spite of a bevy of bounties, they were all just different kinds of fuel for the same fire. Different ways of scratching the same baffling itch.

They drank together. Seteth was unsurprised to learn that Balthus’ choice of alcohol was only a single barrten, much cheaper than the water had been. He took a modest sip and winced as the pungent liquid crawled down his throat. His body might be able to ignore the usual effects of drinking, but his mouth was as susceptible as any other to poor taste. It formed odd shapes as he tried to work the tang out of his taste buds. Still, it was tolerable. Byleth’s plan just might work.

Seteth let the air settle for a few moments before talking again, this time with quiet intent. “It is not just the professor who has resurfaced, you know. Many of your old schoolmates have come to Garreg Mach in support of her… and of Prince Dimitri.” Seteth looked Balthus squarely in the eye. “Would you so quickly dismiss the possibility of reuniting with your companions?”

Balthus set down his mug, already mostly drained, and wiped his mouth. “Let’s say I buy this hogwash, and my stepmother didn’t send you here to kill me.” Honestly, the idea that his strength was purchasable like that of a common mercenary was rather insulting, but there was no point in re-introducing conflict by disputing Balthus. “You want me to believe _two_ ghosts have come back to life now? Hah! What’s next, is Saint Cichol gonna fly by on a dragon?”

Seteth fought furiously to stop himself from laughing and screaming simultaneously.

He forced down more of his drink to quell the incredulity, then let himself say, “News of their deaths has been greatly exaggerated.”

“Hmph.” Balthus downed the rest of his portion and smacked it down with satisfaction.

Seteth ordered two more drinks.

“Why send you and not Yuri?” was Balthus’ next inquiry.

Seteth was relieved to field a more tame question. “Time is of the essence, and Yuri is not particularly fond of flying.”

“Huh. That checks out. That kid hates it when his feet leave the ground. But he doesn’t exactly go around advertising his squeamishness.” Balthus worked through another drink, and Seteth did his utmost to keep pace.

Seteth ordered two more drinks.

They went back and forth like this for some time, with Balthus displaying more shrewdness than Seteth had thought him capable of, and Seteth giving Balthus plenty of time to work through more of his bait between replies. Question, answer, question, answer, two more drinks. Again. Two more drinks. Again and again and again. Seteth began to understand why Byleth had provided him with so many barrtens.

Gradually, inevitably, in spite of Balthus’ considerable bodyweight, his edge began to dull. His questions wandered, his speech slurred, and Seteth found that he did not have to match the titanic man’s thirst for him to continue, thank the goddess. Seteth guiltily fed his vice a little longer, mentally swearing to refuse to do so ever again. He just needed Balthus to lower his guard enough for him to ask…

“Say, Balthus?”

“Mmmmyeah?”

“Do you feel tired?”

Balthus put a hand on his stomach. He was unsteady on the barstool. “YeaaaURP~”

“Let me take you home, then.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

* * * *

“Utterly ridiculous.”

“Ah, come on Ingrid, it’s the truth, I swear!”

“ _Twelve rounds?_ At Seteth’s behest? I’ve never seen that man drink in my life! Honestly, if you’re going to tell us a story, at least give it some pretense of believability. How would he have even gotten you back to the monastery if you were too drunk to stay on a saddle?”

Balthus scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Beats me. All I know is that I woke up in the infirmary with the worst-”

“See? Ugh, I can’t believe I listened to that entire crock of offal.” Ingrid started to get up. Whether it was for seconds or just to get away from him or both, he couldn’t say for certain.

What he did say was, “Ask Yuri about it! He’ll vouch for me!”

Ingrid looked back over her shoulder slyly. “Will he, though?”

Balthus’ heart sank when he realized it would be entirely on brand for the Savage Mockingbird to hang him out to dry. He slouched in his seat dejectedly. The others, who had largely finished eating during his ill-fated story, got up to clean their plates. Balthus didn’t notice, but Sylvain cast him a pitying glance before joining the crowd.

It was Dorothea, of all people, who offered him encouragement. As she made her way toward the serving counter, she patted one of the man’s massive fur-padded shoulders and sweetly said, “Don’t worry, Baltie. I believe you.”

She left Balthus to ponder the reason for her faith as he tackled the rest of his meal. He’d forgotten how hungry he still was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly stole the line about Saint Cichol on a dragon from [On The Road to Garreg Mach](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162257/chapters/50368703) by RoseisaRoseisaRose because I couldn't resist. If you exhaled through your nose at that, go check it out.
> 
> In more general news, I've been planning. I realized after posting Chapter 4 that I didn't have a clear idea of what I wanted from this whole deal, so I took some time to think about it and get a vision for the future. I was also lazy but what else is new. That said, I'm quite excited about the next chapter and I can say with confidence that the next update will take less than a month and a half to appear. Any and all feedback is welcome.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, folks!


	6. Gentle

Bernadetta found the book precisely where she expected it to be.

She delicately plucked a nondescript volume from the lower portions of the wide bookshelf in Seteth’s office, then ambled toward the cozy purple armchair in the adjacent corner of the room. She let herself flop backwards into it, and then glanced at the empty desk chair where a tall, industrious green-haired man usually toiled at some task or other.

Multicolored lights stared back at her from beyond the circular window patterns. They were nice lights, little facets of the sun’s rays that were warm without being distracting, but Bernadetta felt a little more exposed without Seteth’s comforting shadow to curl into.

“Oh, Seteth…” the heir to House Varley ran her fingers along the cover of  _ The Journey of Saint Indech, Illustrated _ . “Where did you and Flayn run off to?”

She opened the book and began to once again read the fable of the man whose crest she bore. Unlike most accounts of any of the Four Saints, this one began well before the war against Nemesis and his allies. Here, the man was just Indech, with no title or particular grandeur to speak of. There were stories of his life in Zanado, how he crafted tools and gifts and treasured heirlooms that made the world around him more beautiful. He once disappeared without warning for days, only to be found in a nearby cave looking for a very particular gemstone. It was to be the crowning piece of a wedding ring. In another chapter, he crafted a set of teeth that appeared so real, its recipient smiled more than they ever had before. Another was devoted entirely to a single day where he wove together a single section of a tapestry, interacting with nary a soul.

“Sounds like a blissful Bernie kind of day. You make me jealous, Indech.”

The one chapter regarding the war against Nemesis was short by comparison. It described a hero, just like any other account did, but where the church records listed his great deeds and then stopped after a brief mention of his departure from history, Seteth’s fable took more liberties. Here, Indech was fallible. Here, Indech’s bitter failures were visible alongside his courageous accomplishments, making the latter all the more sweet. Here, Saint Indech seemed like he was just Indech. Seemed more like her.

Bernadetta flipped the pages back to her favorite chapter. It was short - not even a full page. She read it out loud this time. Or rather, out quiet.

“One day, Indech awoke and found that he was very tired, and that his work mocked him, and that his mind drifted back to the comfort of his bed. He told himself he must work harder, and was disappointed when he could not.

At the end of the day, Cichol arrived at Indech’s dwelling to retrieve the mended headpiece, as promised. Indech did not answer the door. Concerned, Cichol entered and called out. Indech did not answer the call. Cichol proceeded further and found Indech lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, with the pieces of his circlet unrepaired and on the floor.

‘I am so sorry,’ Indech said. His lips were the only part of him that dared to move. ‘I’ll fix it tomorrow, I promise. Please do not bear anger against me.’

But Cichol had compassion on Indech, and said, ‘Fixed or not fixed, you are still my steadfast friend. Rest easy now, and may you smile again in the morning.’

That night, Indech slumbered soundly in the knowledge that he was loved.”

Bernadetta looked to the opposite page, where the accompanying illustration lay. A weary man lay in an unkempt bed, with fragments of a golden circlet scattered well out of his reach. They twinkled in the moonlight, but the man’s smile outshone them.

Seteth had loved discovering that one. Her face warmed at the memory.

“Bernadetta. There you are, you rogue.”

The startled girl shot up with a yelp and had already calculated her leap to behind Seteth’s desk (and nearer to the rack of swords close by) before processing the voice that came with the words. Leveraging years of cumulative effort, she put anchors around her feet and instead twisted toward the man leaning through the office doorway, looking way more amused than was necessary.

“Y-Yuri! Don’t startle me like that!” she clamored.

“Peace friend, please,” Yuri chuckled. “I only meant to make my presence known.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of kn-knocking?”

“The door was open.”

“We’re surrounded by walls!”

“Ohoh, my mistake! I’ll arrange for a small earthquake to announce my entrance next time. That should be impossible to miss, yeah?” Yuri wasn’t helping things.

“No good if… from the foundations…” Bernadetta mumbled, distinctly unhappy with the prospect, before returning from a realm where Yuri would topple buildings just to mess with her.

“Say what now?”

“N-nothing. Nothing at all! Especially no laments over the thought of Bernie dying of violent greetings, nope. Anyway, what’s that you’ve got there?” Bernadetta shifted the topic before her crafty companion could run away with it further.

“Your lunch,” Yuri replied, fully entering the office and proffering half a meat sandwich. “I didn’t see you at the dining hall. Figured I’d make sure you weren’t starving alone.”

“Oh, um, right. I didn’t mean to worry you, I just…” She looked down, uncertain of what to do with her hands despite the plate that Yuri clearly wished to transfer ownership of. The book was gone. Why was the book gone?

“Oh no…” Bernadetta looked around frantically. “Oh no oh no oh no, where did it go? Did I trample it? Gah, Bernie,  _ that’s the original! _ ”

“If you’re talking about the book, I think it took cover behind the armchair. No need to worry about being accused of vandalism.” Yuri’s patient tone contrasted heavily with her own squeaky freakout.

Bernadetta half-lunged into the small space behind the armchair, batting away vivid critiques of “klutz” and “unladylike” that came from well-worn places. For her troubles, she emerged with the decidedly-not-trampled but perhaps-slightly-more-dusty-than-it-had-been-previously fable clutched in both hands. She batted the dust away now, pretending it was her insecurity. Wait, how much dust had  _ Bernie _ just collected?

Change of subject. She made a point to re-establish eye contact and hope her hair color didn’t match Dedue’s now while she asked, “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” the man replied. He still held the plate with its modest contents. If it were possible for food to appear unhappy, the sandwich would have pouted at its continuing neglect. “But you weren’t in the dining hall and you weren’t in your room, so, given recent events… I had a hunch.”

Figures. “Good hunch. Not many people know about… well…” She glanced uncomfortably at the fable.

“I propose a trade.”

“What?” That was sudden. 

“The book for the meal,” Yuri elaborated. “What do you say?”

Bernadetta glanced at the triangular sandwich portion she still had yet to accept from Yuri. It wasn’t exactly to her liking, but that wasn’t his fault, and he had come all this way to deliver it to her, and part of her had to admit she was a little hungry, and it would be terribly rude for her to refuse at this point, and wow he had actually brought some napkins as well…

“Okay, deal. But I stay here.”

“Fair enough.”

She took the food, he took the book.

Bernadetta sat down again and set to eating, if only to be polite. She quickly found out why the napkins were necessary. On top of the sauce being… well, saucy, the bread wasn’t the sturdiest thing in the world, and small chunks of meat had a habit of jumping ship when given the opportunity. She made sure not to decorate the floor with any other unwelcome additions.

“So,” Yuri began after a few moments. He had taken a seat on the floor, cross-legged, as he studied the cover of  _ The Journey _ . “Forgive me for asking you to talk while you eat, but what is it most people don’t know about?”

Bernadetta swallowed carefully and made liberal use of a few napkins. She looked at the empty desk chair again. “He let me stay here, sometimes.” She returned her gaze to Yuri. “Seteth, I mean.”

“You don’t say?” Yuri was still looking at the volume, which was now open. She supposed she could allow that.

“Yeah. It was… It was nice.”

“What was wrong with your room?”

“Nothing!” Bernadetta protested. “My room is a sacred grove of peace and happiness! But… everyone knows I go there. A lot. So sometimes, if I could handle it, I’d sneak over here and sit in this same chair. And if Seteth wasn’t in a meeting, he’d let me stay. Almost as long as I wanted. Not many of the others ever had a reason to come by his office, instead of the library or the infirmary.”

Yuri was silent. Contemplative.

“We didn’t… we didn’t really talk all that much. But he seemed okay with that. He’d work on big important stuff and I’d do my own little thing. Read, write, draw, sew…” A pleasant memory rose to the surface. Bernadetta felt herself unwind as she described it. “One time he let me work on those robes he always wears! Some of the tassels had caught on something and been ripped off. He asked me to fix them…” She brushed her hair back shyly with one hand. “He said I did a great job.”

“Sounds like he was very kind to you.” Yuri remained fixated on the fable in his hands, but Bernadetta hardly took notice.

“He was,” she continued. “Oh! One day, he let me huddle up underneath his desk, and then, Hanneman came in. He really wanted to know something, but Seteth wasn’t having any of it. I sat. So. Still. For the whole conversation! Hanneman never even knew I was there! That was a good day for stealth master Bernie.”

“An entire conversation with Hanneman, eh?” Yuri glanced up. She registered that he’d been looking down for a while. She wondered how much he was listening, until she realized he was responding to what she had just said. “You sure you didn’t pass out from holding your breath that long?”

“Positive. I took care to breathe anytime I started to feel faint.”

Yuri’s eyes widened. “Uh, wow, I didn’t mean to hit so close to home…”

“Home, huh,” Bernadetta thought out loud, unfazed. “Yeah, I guess this place is kinda close to a second home. And by home, I mean my room,” she added hurriedly.

“Of course you do. Forgive me for ever thinking otherwise.”

Bernadetta’s thoughts kept drifting. When she spoke next, it was raw. Pensive. “He seemed so scary and stern all the time, and he’s downright terrifying when he swoops down from the sky in battle, but... I think he just wants to make sure he’s doing the right thing. He’s really… Oh, Bernie, what’s the word… gentle. Yeah. He’s strong, but he’s gentle.”

“Hm.” Yuri smiled. “You know, I wouldn’t be so quick to believe you if I hadn’t discovered the storybooks he writes. Like this one.” He held up  _ The Journey _ , still open to a section Bernadetta had no way of seeing now.

Bernadetta’s face took on a familiar flush. “Y-you’ve read that one before?”

“Several times, in fact. Sometimes I gather the monastery orphans and read stories to them in the gardens.” Yuri’s smile took on a mischievous light. “They do so adore the illustrations in this one.”

“What!?” Bernadetta cried, subconsciously revisiting the leap from earlier and realigning it to crest over Yuri and get her to the door. “You- You showed everyone my- I mean- H-how come I never knew about this?”

“You never asked.”

“I’m asking now!”

Yuri sighed. “There are people in the gardens, Bernadetta.”

“I-”

“People-y people doing people things.”

“...”

“People-ing.”

Bernadetta fumed. She imagined any dust she had gathered earlier now melted off her crossed arms like magma from an active volcano. “You’re worse than Claude.”

“Guilty, take me away,” Yuri sang, flourishing his hands as if to be chained. Bernadetta’s pout intensified. Unfortunately for her, this had the effect of sinking her already small stature further into her seat. What was left of her lunch began to slide inward.

Yuri once again had cause to chuckle as Bernadetta jerked to steady the dish with such alacrity, her crest may have activated. By some small miracle, no sauce spilled onto the floor or onto the young woman.

Bernadetta huffed as she set the plate onto a steady spot of floor, while Yuri composed himself and wiped a tear from his eye. She couldn’t tell if it was real or if he was just being dramatic to accentuate her torture. Her embarrassment weighed on her anyway, as if Alois had fallen on top of her and made a joke about how he was sorry to  _ drop _ by.

Still, she didn’t leave the room outright. It was a small victory.

“You drew these illustrations, yeah?” Yuri asked, tilting his head to one side. It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Y-yes,” came the high-pitched reply. “How’d you know?”

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m fairly certain this last image wasn’t in any of the copies I came across in the library.” Yuri held up the last page of the fable. The  _ original _ fable. The only one with a lovingly drawn illustration of her and Seteth - or rather, Cichol, but he sure did look a lot like Seteth, right down to the circlet.

“Oh. O-oh yeah, that. I really wasn’t sure about that one, but he said we should keep it in, so…”

“They’re works of art, you know.”

Bernadetta’s head rose from where she’d unconsciously tucked it. “You… you really think so?”

“I do. It’s abundantly clear this story is close to your heart. I feel like I understand Saint Indech better just by looking at what you created.”

Bernie was floating. Was she floating? She wondered when she’d hit the ceiling and crash back to the floor. Probably directly on top of the last bit of sandwich.

Oh yeah, the sandwich.

“Thanks so much, Yuri. That’s really kind of you to say.”

“Don’t mention it,” came the easy reply.

“And thanks for bringing me lunch, too. You’re such a good friend already, you didn’t have to do that.”

At this, Yuri tapped his fingers bashfully against his thighs and seemed at a loss for the appropriate direction he should be looking in, which was anywhere but towards herself. Wait… bashfully? Was that an emotion Yuri had? The thought was oddly comforting.

“Yeah, well… I did,” he finally managed.

Bernie hummed and swung her legs slightly.

After several extremely comfortable beats of Bernie time, Yuri put himself back together and prefaced a real question. “So, one thing that’s puzzling me.”

“Hm?” It was Bernie’s turn to sing.

“Why isn’t that picture in any of the other copies? And why isn’t your name anywhere? I don’t think it’s even in the original.” Oh. She should have known he wasn’t just admiring her handiwork.

She tried to stay positive. “That. Right. Well, Seteth said he wanted to make copies of the story available in the library, but I wasn’t comfortable with everyone for the rest of eternity knowing I made the illustrations. They might ask me to do more, and I don’t think I’m ready to do that all the time.” 

Nailed it.

“That’s a shame,” Yuri observed, closing  _ The Journey _ . He braced himself on one knee and rose to his feet, shaking out his legs a bit as he did so. Then he offered the book back to Bernadetta. “The world could stand to benefit from talent like yours. I think you’re a lot like Indech.”

Bernadetta took the volume gingerly as she considered those words. Was it true? She was most definitely a lot like Indech, that was the whole reason she’d felt inspired to draw anything related to his story in the first place. But could she really do some good in the world? Make it more beautiful, as Indech did? She’d fought to restore peace like everyone else, but that had been for everyone’s sake, out of necessity. Surely the world didn’t  _ need _ her drawings or her own silly stories or her fanciful crafts.

But then, why did Seteth, one of the busiest men she’d ever met, bother to write?

“Thanks Yuri. Maybe… maybe you’re right.” She paused. “Seteth once told me something about Indech. That he was beloved.”

Yuri smiled once again. “I think you inherited more from him than just a crest.”

The familiar flush returned, but this time it was… tolerable. Not pleasant, no, definitely not, but… tolerable.

Bernadetta opened the fable to its final pages, where the image of herself and Cichol flowed vividly across the parchment. Seteth had wished that they, too, would accomplish great things together.

That couldn’t happen if they never saw each other again.

A fresh pang of worry hit Bernadetta, and she stared intensely at the image, taking care to remember to breathe. Breathe.

Yuri took notice. “What’s wrong, friend?”

“I…” Bernadetta closed her eyes. Deep breaths. She was fine, she’d be fine, no one was coming to get her. But she really wanted to go get Seteth right about now. Seteth, Rhea, Flayn, she wanted them all back, but Seteth was the one who had believed in her and sheltered her on a regular basis. Seteth had been the most gentle. 

“Where’d they go, Yuri?” It was a pathetic question after the morning’s meeting, she knew, but it came out anyway.

Yuri’s brow furrowed. “I wish I knew, friend. Believe me, I wish I knew.”

It was frightening in itself to think that Seteth might now be scared, but if there was one thing that would do it, it would be the Professor swinging the Sword of the Creator at Flayn. Whenever she was scared, Bernadetta always went someplace safe. Her room. The Professor’s side. Seteth’s office. 

Where did Seteth go when he was scared?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an extremely gratifying chapter to write. I hope it's at least half as gratifying to read.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone! A special prayer for those of you on the American west coast right now, where the sky has literally been the wrong color.


	7. Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Sorry to keep you waiting again. I'm taking things at my own pace and making sure I can create the story I'm trying to tell.

At some point, Flayn became aware they were descending.

She struggled to blink open her dampened eyes, withdrawing one arm from around Seteth’s waist to help with the effort. The wind whipped her loose, spacious sleeves about her face.

It still didn’t feel real.

She fastened herself around her father again, sinking her head into his stout back, clinging to his presence. The only remaining presence.

It still didn’t feel real.

What were they going to do?

“Father…” It seemed silly to keep up pretenses at this point.

Her father evidently agreed. Speaking over the wind, he asked, “Yes, daughter?”

“Where are we going? To what end?”

Seteth replied, “We are making a stop in a small town in Charon territory, to procure some supplies. Do not trouble yourself over the details, for the moment.” Then, more quietly, “I have done enough worrying to last us both.”

Flayn squeezed her father for a few grateful seconds. Of course he had a plan.

Their descent continued. How much time had passed since their departure? Or rather, since their escape? Flayn distracted herself from visions of swords and spines and gaping green eyes by finding the angle of the sun. Its height was frustratingly ambiguous. It was most certainly not midday, but which side of that did they now find themselves on? She realized she had never had to perform much in the way of navigation or wayfinding. Anytime she journeyed outside the monastery, there had always been a goal, a leader, a group. Even when Edelgard and her armies had first taken Garreg Mach all those years ago, she and her father had travelled with the knights.

In search of…

“Is there no time to mourn her?” Flayn nearly whispered. She felt a large breath enter Seteth, dwell there for a beat, and then slowly exit.

“There will be,” the man said, turning back to glance over his shoulder at her. “But not yet. We do not know the extent of the danger.”

Flayn was soon able to make out the town that Seteth had mentioned, and then perceive that her father was not directing Celestine to land close by. In fact, they angled toward the opposite side of a large, forested hill, one of many that transitioned into the mountain range that ran along much of the Kingdom and Alliance border as one went eastward. Her father identified a clearing where their considerable mount could dip beneath the treeline, and before long he was helping her off of the saddle and back to the earth. 

Her legs shook.

Seteth coaxed the wyvern to lie down and began rummaging through the meager items stashed in the saddle pouches. “We have precious little food and water, but we cannot risk visiting the town in broad daylight. We are not far from the monastery, and Byleth will have no doubt convinced Dimitri to begin a search. We must lay low until nightfall, gather what we need for the immediate future, and then be on our way by the light of the stars. Here.” He handed her a flask of water. “Drink wisely.”

Without the rush of adrenaline or wind keeping her alert, it was hard for Flayn to organize her thoughts after that. When she found herself at a nearby stream, it was probably because Seteth led her and Celestine there. When the wyvern left, it was probably Seteth letting her hunt. When she sunk into his arms and cried and lamented that she had slept through the death of another friend as her father whispered soft reassurances, it was probably a long while before her tears slowed.

Seteth told her to get some rest while they waited for twilight.

She did not ever want to sleep again.

* * * *

Seteth knelt down and made Flayn recite the plan back to him one last time.

He listened closely as his daughter touched on all of the steps and all of the warnings. They were here for a change of clothes and two days’ food, nothing more. They were not to make eye contact if at all possible. They were not to reply to inquiries from strangers, and if they had no choice, he would handle them. And last but most certainly not least…

“...stay close, and stay vigilant,” Flayn finished.

Seteth smiled in what he hoped was a comforting manner and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Stay close, and stay vigilant,” he repeated. “We’ll be on our way to safety in short order.”

He rose and led Flayn out of the trees and into the town outskirts as inconspicuously as he could manage - a task made no easier by the brighter details on his robes that reflected the torchlight in the streets. Seteth had stowed his golden circlet, but the tassels and embroidery were more stubborn. He knew he could never have planned the outfits he and Flayn would have to abscond with, but it irked him nonetheless. The cloaks were needed first.

It took several tense minutes for Seteth to find the building he was looking for, a modest two-story affair that served as both home and storefront for its owner. He held out a hand to stop Flayn while he stole a glance through one of the two front-facing windows. He saw no one but the shopkeep within. He motioned for Flayn to head in, casting his sharp eyes in a wide arc behind them before stepping inside and closing the door with the jingling of a bell.

“Well, if it isn’t dear little Flayn! And Seteth himself!” An older man in a dark blue vest and light trousers looked up from what appeared to be end-of-day accounting. He had patchy, blemished skin and hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blonde or gray, but his smile was clean and warm.

Flayn seemed to be mercifully taken out of their present gloom at the sight of another friendly face. She ran forward to the store counter. “Cleland! How delightful it is to see you again!”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Cleland put his hands on the counter and leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me, is that a bow I spy fastened to your back?”

“Indeed!” As Seteth approached as well, Flayn turned to show off the ornate dark blue bow that was one of several accessories that set her academy uniform apart. “Your handiwork has sustained itself most elegantly. I have a chance to cherish it anew with each birthday.”

Cleland’s smile softened. “Ah, thank you Miss Flayn. That warms my old heart. So,” he continued, looking to Seteth. “What brings you back here?”

“Nothing good, I am afraid. We require one cloak apiece, for weather both fair and foul. The most durable kind you possess.” Seteth took out the small but ample money purse that he had prepared alongside his riding gear many years ago. “Cost is no object.”

“I see,” Cleland mused, stepping out from the counter to pore through the contents of one of the store shelves. Truth be told, they looked more like bookcases. Seteth wondered, not for the first time, if they were secondhand from a library. “Going on an adventure, are we?”

Seteth looked out the windows to scan the street for shadows and hide his nervousness. “You might say that, yes.”

It wasn’t long before Cleland came away from his search with the fruits of Seteth’s request. He kept Flayn within arm’s reach as he handled the transaction.

“Would you like to try them on before you go?” Cleland inquired. “Make sure they fit?”

Seteth was not terribly concerned with the fit, to put it mildly, but he thought it prudent to don their new attire before exiting the building anyway. It turned out that they had nothing to worry about on that front. The fit, as it were, was excellent for both him and for Flayn. He might even call it comfortable, in other circumstances.

As he put together the funds for the purchase, Seteth added an extra barrdred to the clump of coins and looked the shopkeep in the eye. “Cleland.”

The man grew rather still. “Yes, Seteth?”

“If anyone asks, and I do mean anyone, we were never here on this day. Am I understood?”

Cleland held his gaze for a moment. Oh, to be able to tell him, to confide in someone who didn’t know his pursuer, to have an outlet for his doubts without sowing the seeds of despair in Flayn. But he could not. He would only endanger the man. All he could do was ask for his trust.

Cleland took the barrdred in one patchy-skinned hand and deposited it back in Seteth’s palm, clasping it for a moment. “Understood. Be safe.” He looked down to Flayn. “Both of you.”

“Many thanks,” Seteth replied, and Flayn echoed. 

They turned to leave just as one of the windows shattered, taking the night’s peace along with it.

A dark lightning bolt struck Seteth’s right shoulder like the bite of a wyvern. He cried out in pain and shock as he spun and collided with the store counter, instinctively breaking his fall but causing a second burst of fire to quake across his torso.

“Father!”

Father? There was no time to worry about it.

Flayn was at his side instantly with a healing spell glowing, but Seteth stood up and drew his lance before she could lay hands on him. Senses still spinning, he roared out “Behind me, Flayn!” and prepared to defend against this newest attack.

At this point, three figures in dark attire had already burst through the shop’s front door and gained ground against him and Flayn. A trio of sharp weapons glinted in the torchlight, growing as their bearers closed in with footsteps that thundered over the ringing in his ears. The broken window glass and Seteth’s own shoulder wound were the only evidence that a mage was still hiding somewhere close by.

The axe was the first weapon to get within range. Seteth sidestepped the brutal overhead swing that carved a deep gash into the store counter, cracking the surrounding wood. He parried the lance stab that came next, diverting the attacker long enough for him to block the incoming sword strike, but Flayn blasted the sword away with a wind spell. Back to the lance again, which Seteth was horrified to learn was actually a scythe with an additional speartip. Seteth had barely enough time to push his guard farther away from his body to block the slash, but the scythe still punished his initial miscalculation with a shallow cut below the arm and torn garments to match.

The pain was trivial in the face of what else he had to lose.

A fireball erupted from behind Seteth, aiming for the scythe. It dodged, and the fireball crashed into a shelf of Cleland’s wares, angrily setting the area alight. Flayn somehow had a mind to gasp, as if their friend’s shop was at all comparable to the value of her life, but there was no time to chide her. Instead, Seteth had an idea.

The man put space between himself and his assailants and herded Flayn back toward the shelves on the opposite side of the shop. They formed aisles. Choke points. A means of rendering the enemy’s numerical advantage moot.

The axe followed them into the aisle first, its bearer grunting with effort as he brought the mighty weapon down once again. This time there was nowhere to dodge but backwards. Seteth crashed into a startled Flayn, knocking her over and throwing off his own balance. In a moment of panic, he glanced behind himself, heedless of the wicked edge that now readied itself for a follow-up swipe.

“Brother!” Seteth followed Flayn’s wide-eyed gaze back to his adversary, who planted his foot and roared as he delivered a sweeping uppercut. With every bone in his body resisting the urge like claws across a chalkboard, he leapt over Flayn’s crouching form and, in doing so, exposed her to unthinkable danger. He threw his lance at the enemy before his feet touched the ground.

The axe missed narrowly.

Seteth did not.

“Up, Flayn!” Seteth commanded, rushing around her to retrieve the lance from where it had embedded itself in his still-standing foe’s chest. A ghastly-looking hand clutched at the protruding weapon in what Seteth could only conclude was disbelief. He wrapped his own two hands around it, set his boot against his victim, and pulled. The axeman screamed and staggered but, incredibly, still did not fall. Seteth fixed that with two more swift strikes - one to the leg, and one to the neck.

No sooner had the first assailant dropped than the scythe of the second vaulted over him and into reach. Seteth blocked, but before he could retaliate he heard a shrill scream from behind him.

It was simple math. The sword had looped around and found his daughter.

A thousand thoughts whipped through Seteth’s mind. IShouldTurnAround IShouldNotTurnAround IHaveToSaveHer IAlmostJustKilledHerByTurningAround TheScytheIsMoving TheSwordIsSurelyMoving DoNotLetHerDie DoNotLetHerDie DONOTLETHERDIEAGAIN-

Seteth resolved to throw his lance at the scythe and himself at the sword, but was saved from doing so. He felt and heard a massive gust of wind toss the sword against the far wall and dishevel countless articles of clothing in it wake. In that instant, his pride, his relief, was overwhelming.

The scythe moved.

Seteth’s body reacted on pure instinct. He stepped forward, so far that his right side now faced the enemy instead of his chest, and thrust.

Later, Seteth would have time to consider what possessed him to take this course of action. He would marvel at how he had unconsciously noted the scythe’s overhead arc, and the distance between himself and the weapon. He would dwell on the bold but effective tactic of moving so close to the enemy that the blade of the scythe would overshoot, and his un-injured shoulder would halt most of the weapon’s bite at the haft. He would remember witnessing Dimitri execute a similarly brazen move to finish off the Death Knight, coming away bloodied but alive. He would ponder how many times the goddess would allow him to get away with such a dangerous gamble. And he would realize the eerie similarities between how he broke through the scythe’s guard and how he broke through Byleth’s… and, in a way, his own.

Seteth’s lance and the scythe both found flesh, but Seteth’s stab was deeper, and hit vital areas. More importantly, he thought as a fresh wave of cutting pain seared his left upper back, he had an exceptional healer nearby.

Seteth withdrew his weapon from the second bloody sheath that day, thankfully a much smaller figure less intent on standing despite mortal wounds. The scythe clattered to the floor, limited to only a small taste of his blood. He finally turned around to assess the state of his daughter.

Flayn’s ample head of hair was still firmly attached to her body, thank the goddess. She was breathing heavily. The swordsman, no, swordswoman, lay unmoving against the far wall - whether she was dead or unconscious, Seteth did not care. All that mattered now was holding Flayn tight and whisking her far, far away from here, far away from danger and distress and death-

Seteth’s first step in his daughter’s direction was impaired by an angry swell of pain from three fresh injuries. Apparently his body had decided it was done suppressing its cries of alarm. A grunt escaped his chest and he walked unevenly, causing Flayn to look back in his direction and go white with worry. Despite everything, it made him feel loved. Perhaps that was selfish.

“Brother!” Flayn cried, scurrying toward him and looking him over as he had seen her look over many of her friends… no. Former friends. “You… that blood… turn around, quickly.”

He gritted his teeth and began to oblige even as Flayn refused to wait for a complete turn, moving behind him and gasping at what she saw. Was it that bad? Seteth thought he’d avoided the worst of it rather efficiently, all things considered. Flayn muttered something to herself that sounded like a prayer, and her father began to feel the pain in his back recede, though it did not vanish. The relief of white magic was sweet every time, but doubly so when accompanied by pride in its source.

Flayn shifted her hands to his right shoulder and the damaged materials that covered it, but Seteth shirked her touch this time. “Leave it,” he gasped, eyes prowling between both avenues out of the aisle. “Enemies still lurk.”

“But-”

“We must go,” the man continued. “There is no time to discuss.” The dark magic wound would take too long to fully heal anyway. Those always sunk too deep, and he knew that despite her objection, Flayn was aware of that fact as well.

“There are more of them. We know not the number. Doubtless the dark mage awaits our exit… we will have to emerge somewhere unexpected.” Seteth glanced toward the opposite side of the shop, where flames still crackled and spread amongst the garments. No sign of Cleland, he realized. Perhaps the store had a rear exit? If so, then maybe he and Flayn could… no. If Cleland had left through a back door, he could have alerted enemies to its presence by now. They could have already set a trap in place.

Perhaps doors were not what they needed, then.

Seteth spared a minute prayer for Cleland’s safety before turning to his daughter, whose bright green eyes displayed both trust and fear. 

“Flayn.”

“Yes, fa… brother?”

“I need you to make an exit.” Seteth used his lance to point to the wooden wall that the swordsman laid against. His shoulder complained once more, but he could not let that impede him.

Flayn’s eyes followed his aim. “You mean.. You wish for me to break the wall apart?”

Seteth nodded. “And once you do, we run for the trees.”

His daughter took a deep breath and emerged from it resolute. “Very well.”

Seteth led her out of the aisle, checking his corners as he did so. Then, Flayn picked a spot, narrowed her eyes at the wall, and summoned fire to her palms. Seteth fell in beside her.

“On three?” she proposed.

“On three,” he accepted.

Another deep breath from Flayn, then, “One… Two… Three!”

Twin bursts of flame crashed into the unfortunate wall, charring and burning a huge area. Flayn followed up with a gale that tore the weakened beams of wood asunder and forced Seteth to shield his face even as the pair of them rushed forward through the hole and into the uncertain night.

They were immediately forced to brake lest they careen into another building. Seteth steered his daughter along the alley they found themselves in and towards the town outskirts. He raised the hand that was not guiding Flayn to his lips to deliver a loud whistle, a prayer if there ever was one. They would surely be spotted soon anyway. Bursting from the gap between structures, Seteth swung his attention to the store entrance, in the direction of the shattered window.

A masked figure stopped in mid-sprint mere feet away.

Before he could halt Flayn’s momentum, she stepped past him and launched another fire spell at the dark mage, who flung out a counterattack at the same time.

Both spells connected. A pair of screams split the darkness, one of which froze Seteth’s blood considerably more than the other. He charged the injured mage, who attempted to use the un-singed half of his body to fire another spell, but his fingers just sparked impotently. Flayn had sealed his magic with her attack.

Seteth’s lance found its target with ease, and the dark figure crumpled to the ground with a pitiful grunt. Heart pounding, he ran back to his daughter.

“Flayn!” he panted, grateful to see her mostly standing but still worried to death. “Are you hurt? Do you need medicine?”

“Do not worry… I shall be... fine,” Flayn replied between heavy breaths. Seteth frantically searched for things to worry about. “But…”

But? Seteth’s stomach twisted. But what? Flayn looked downward, and Seteth followed suit. His heart sank.

Seteth knew about the Banshee spell, of course. He had seen both Hubert and Hapi employ it on many occasions, and had even skewered enemies frozen in place by the latter. But this had an entirely different effect on him. He was now confronted directly by shadowy wisps that thoroughly anchored his daughter’s feet to the ground, like hands from a grave seeking to drag her into the earth along with them.

“Can you move?” Seteth knew it was a silly, futile hope, but seeing Flayn shake her solemn head was crushing nonetheless. If only restoration magic could work on its caster… he knew little of the principles of white magic beyond what Flayn and Rhea had shared with him, but he silently cursed whichever one stopped Flayn from un-binding herself now.

As if to punish his blasphemy, the sound of distant hooves reached Seteth’s ears. Several sets of hooves. Growing louder. They were coming from… the left...

Seteth’s eyes perceived faint outlines that confirmed what his ears had initially reported. No fewer than a half-dozen armed riders grew steadily larger in his vision as they raced down the street toward his immobilized daughter. The color drained from Seteth’s face. He couldn’t fight this, not alone, not with his ability to transform long gone. He racked his terrified mind for some kind of plan that did not end with them both trampled and bowled over by-

Wait.

Without a moment wasted, Seteth shouldered his lance and scooped Flayn up by her waist with his free arm. Magic be damned, if Flayn couldn’t move, he’d move her himself. She gave a startled cry and attempted to find purchase somewhere along Seteth’s back, but the man was sprinting for all he was worth into another alley that led to the edges of the town. He could spare no time to get Flayn comfortable.

When Seteth reached the next street, he was horrified to find that the horsemen had also taken some intersection or other and were thundering ever closer. Flayn, in a display of beautiful courage, began firing spells from her awkward perch. Any single one of them landing would have been a miracle, but Seteth counted a full two outcries and crashes from their pursuers before he and his burning legs reached the next alley.

Seteth’s lungs heaved. He wasn’t sure which was louder, the hoofbeats or his heartbeat. Hair and sweat stuck to his forehead. He could see the treeline now, but there was an agonizing amount of space between it and the edge of town. A death trap of completely open ground before they could complicate the chase within the forest. He considered doubling back, trying to lose the group, but he now heard two distinct parties of horses - one following directly in their wake toward the alley, another moving around the last few village houses to meet them in the open field. There was no way out but forward.

Saint Cichol uttered a desperate plea.

He tore into the open with Flayn shooting spells at the horsemen that had entered the alleyway behind them, inadvertently threatening to unbalance him, but the other group charged at his left flank. His present fears made themselves real as he took in their trajectory. There was too much distance between them and the treeline, and too little between them and the horsemen. Seteth gathered himself, set his jaw, and prepared for the fight of his life.

And that was when the largest, most gallant wyvern in all of Fodlan descended from the night sky like a shooting star to bowl the nearest group of riders off of their mounts in one fell swoop. Seteth let out a cry of sheer elation, which Celestine echoed with significantly more volume. The man turned to the last two pursuers that were about to clear the building line.

One for him, one for Flayn.

Once again, the narrow quarters favored Seteth and his daughter. Taking care not to injure Flayn in the effort, Seteth flipped his lance around, reared his arm back, and launched the weapon with all the might his groaning shoulder could muster. Few pieces of armor in the world could have withstood the force that concentrated itself in the point of that lance. The rider was not wearing one of them. As the first attacker fell, Seteth used the follow-through from his throw to pivot so that his back - and Flayn’s front - faced the second.

“Flayn! Now!”

His daughter’s spell hit true, and the final pursuer and his steed crashed to the ground with a mixture of human and animal yells.

Neither of them got back up.

Seteth sank to one knee, the fatigue from his mad sprint finally catching up to him in full. Flayn grunted as the slight fall transferred the shock through Seteth’s shoulder and into her midsection, but at this point, Seteth was grateful that she made any sound at all. He tilted forward slightly and let gravity carry her feet back to the ground. Celestine landed with a gust of wings and air beside them, eyes trained inquisitively on his face.

Flayn spoke first. “Are you okay… father?” She placed a hand on his shoulder to begin healing it. Seteth had run out of the will to stave her off. 

“Pay me no mind… I have endured worse. Are you-”

“I shall pay you as much of my mind as I like, thank you very much!” She was well enough to be stubborn, then. That was a good sign. The hand on his shoulder quickly transitioned into a trembling hug. He let himself close his eyes and sink into the embrace, just for a moment, he told himself. Just… just for a moment. 

“I think the spell is wearing off,” Flayn said several warm moments later. Sure enough, Seteth opened his eyes to find that the pulsating wisps were now dim echoes of the chains they had once been. Flayn was able to take small steps to steady herself as Seteth stood and leaned against his wyvern. 

“Did we win?”

A weak, wry chuckle escaped Seteth despite his ragged breathing. Ever the hopeful one, his daughter. He could still hear distant shouting. 

“No, my daughter… when we are home, and you are safe, then we will have won.” He hoisted Flayn onto Celestine’s saddle.

As he mounted his steed and grasped the reins, Flayn asked the obvious question. “Where is home now, father?"

Seteth would have given almost anything to have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels good to be writing some action again. As always, feedback of any kind is welcome.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, folks!


	8. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, dear readers! I really wanted to get this out in November so I could pretend to be on a monthly update schedule, but oh well. I hope you enjoy regardless. Writing this chapter was... significant to me.

Annette could list three reasons why she was annoyed with Felix this evening.

First and foremost, he had skipped dinner. She, Mercie, Ashe and Dedue had decided to put together a rather extravagant meal in order to take everyone’s mind off of the Seteth-and-Flayn-shaped wound that had been festering for a week now. Duscur-spiced venison, potatoes, sauces, a heavenly fruit pie recipe that Mercedes kept even Annette in the dark about (“There’s magic in the mystery, don’t you think?”), and a dish that Annette had learned to make herself for the occasion: Gautier Cheese Gratin. The best part? Not a single ingredient was burned that day.

Ingrid had beamed. Balthus had raved. Professor Byleth hadn’t said much, but her eyes had shined. Even His Highness had complimented the texture.

Felix had been nowhere to be found.

Not that it would take much trouble to find him, of course. Annette had excused herself early with a fork and a tray of gratin before Ingrid could demolish the remnants. No sooner had she opened the broad doors to the training grounds than she discovered the second thing that Felix had done to annoy her that evening.

He was good at archery.

Granted, this was not an isolated phenomenon. Felix had been instructed in the bow from a young age, and Annette… hadn’t. Ashe had tried to teach her once, before politely but firmly discontinuing the effort in the interest of public safety. She knew it wasn’t Felix’s fault she didn’t have the faintest idea how to convince a bow and arrow to work properly. She knew there was no need to compete with him.

Still, it bothered her. What right did he have to go off on his own and be impressive at something after she poured half her day into this dinner?

A rational part of her brain reminded her that she had not told Felix about her plans. She slapped it away and re-focused.

The third thing that annoyed her, Annette realized, was that Felix was handsome in the low evening light. Once again, this was not news in the slightest, but it did mean that Annette had to try just a little bit harder to be annoyed at him as his shoulder muscles tensed for another draw, and that only annoyed her even further.

Goodness, she was a mess.

“Hey!” Annette finally spouted, a little more short-tempered than she meant it.

Felix’s only immediate response was to use his foot to tug at a rope handle. The rope flipped a switch by the far pillars, causing a target to start sliding from its high position down a rack that sloped gently towards the ground. The man drew his arrow back, focused his amber eyes on the target’s trajectory, and let fly.

_ Thunk. _

The target hit the grounded end of the rack and stopped, complete with one feathered protrusion from the innermost circle.

Felix frowned. Then he half-turned to her, gave a brief “Hey,” in reply, and started walking over to reset the contraption.

Annette suddenly found it much easier to be annoyed with him again. “Not so fast!” she said, marching to intercept. “We made dinner for everyone tonight and here you are messing around with that archery doohickey like some kind of vagrant!”

“I train late sometimes, you know that,” Felix said, seeming undisturbed even as Annette headed him off and stopped him from moving forward. “Besides, I basically live at Garreg Mach right now.”

“Vagrant,” Annette emphasized. She shoved her tray at him, nearly jostling the food free. “Now come on, eat up. Training’s over.”

“Annie…”

“Don’t you ‘Annie’ me, mister. Did you even look at what’s on the plate?”

Felix blew a puff of air at his bangs, but he had the decency to look down at the tray of food that was practically leaning into him at this point. Annette caught a flash of something like desire in his eyes even in the torchlight. Hah. She  _ knew _ he liked this kind of gratin.

The moment passed, and he looked away. “I’m not hungry,” was all he offered before attempting to move around her.

Annette matched his step. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” she started, desperately trying not to consider whether she sounded like her mother, “you may be a villain and a scoundrel, but you are a terrible liar. Now start eating, or I’ll never sing to you again.”

If there were a book of records for the most hollow threats in Fodlan, that one would have snagged the top spot. Nevertheless, Felix paused and gave her a look that Annette knew to be one of subtle, genuine fondness. Not a full smile yet… but he was getting closer these days. He placed a hand over hers as he grabbed the tray.

“Alright,” he sighed. “You win.”

Annette beamed, glad that the torchlight already bathed the area in warm hues.

They meandered to the benches near the edge of the grounds, where Felix set down his bow. Annette took up a spot where she could lean against Felix as he set to work on the dish she’d brought. It didn’t take long for his hunger lie to be conclusively proven false. He dug in with determination, and seeing him savor the results of her hard work almost made her forget he had skipped out on her earlier. Almost.

Felix swallowed and paused. “I didn’t know Mercedes had this recipe.”

Annette righted herself. “Mercie?!”

“You two made this, right?” He asked, furrowing his brow.

“ _ I _ made this!” Annette shouted, scrunching her face and levelling an accusatory finger at Felix’s chest. “For you!”

Felix paled slightly, the error in his assumption becoming apparent. “For me? I thought…” He looked at his food, unsure of himself. 

Annette tried to fill the silence. “You thought wha-”

“But you’re sweet!”

Saints above, this boy. Annette was lost for a proper response, which meant her finger jab was beginning to last an awkward amount of time.

“I mean, your food! Is sweet. You make sweet food,” Felix stumbled. “You don’t usually go for this kind of stuff, so-”

“So I made it for someone who does, you flobbernoggin!” Annette retorted, recovering enough of her brain’s functions to decide crossing her arms was the appropriate cure for her case of stabby finger.

“Ah, uh, right. I mean, it tastes great. Especially the, er… cheese…” he trailed off weakly.

“Well don’t  _ stop _ eating then!”

Felix, recognizing an opportunity to retreat with some semblance of dignity, obediently forked another bite into his mouth and chewed resolutely. He waited a few seconds before peeking up again at Annette, whose arms had not come un-crossed. He offered a thumbs-up with the hand that held his fork, like a hound timidly wagging its tail.

Annette finally broke composure, unable to maintain her fiery stare against this soft side of Felix that only she was let in far enough to share. She let her arms drop and bounced against him gently. “I swear,” she grumbled fondly, “It’s like you  _ want _ me to call you a villain sometimes.”

Felix scratched the back of his head with his free hand. “And sometimes I have no idea what you want from me.”

Annette smirked. She supposed that much was true. “A thank-you would be a good start.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Walked into that one,” he muttered. Then, looking directly at her, “Thanks, Annie. This food really is good. I was planning on eating alone after I was done, but… this is better.”

Annette swayed happily. “Good. You’re welcome! But you’d better not skip out on me next time.”

Felix readied another bite. “If I had known sooner, I would have been the first in line.”

“Fine,” Annette whined, pretending to take offense. “If you really think I can improve my communication skills too, then okaaaay.”

The corners of Felix’s lips curled. “Hmph.”

Felix ate the rest of his meal without incident. Annette would have sat by him companionably - she was learning to enjoy quiet moments instead of filling them with her own goofy ramblings - but something was bugging her. Of course she would find a way to take herself out of an otherwise peaceful time together. 

It didn’t take long for her active mind to put together that as much as it might be bugging her, it was surely bugging Felix more. The proof was in the practice.

“So,” Annette opened, gazing at the arrow still embedded in the bulls-eye. “High moving targets today, huh?”

Felix’s fork clattered against the tray as he set it down. “And tonight. I’ve fallen out of practice with how little I’ve been able to hunt in recent weeks. I have to be ready.”

“Ready for Seteth?”

“You know how dangerous he is, Annette.”

“Ready for Flayn, too?”

Felix exhaled deeply and stood. He ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the first few stars that were beginning to make themselves known.

Annette waited.

“Did Sylvain tell you about what happened to him in the canyon? When he and Ingrid went after them?”

Annette still couldn’t see his face. She wondered if that was on purpose. “I know he took a pretty nasty fall. He laughed it off, but Ingrid looked worried when he brought it up.”

“He could have died,” Felix spat, voice trembling, sword hand clinging tightly to the grip of one of his blades. “He would have, if it hadn’t been for Ingrid saving his reckless ass like she always does.”

Annette stood to take the hand away from Felix’s sword and weave his fingers through her own. He relented. The man’s grip remained tight and harried, but he was anchored to a person now instead of a weapon.

Felix continued in a venomous tone. “Sylvain wasn’t even trying to use his steel. He tried to capture them with a net, but guess whose wind magic sent it back and nearly drowned him in the canyon river?”

“...Flayn.”

“And guess who left him for dead as Ingrid risked her own life to tear the net off of a wyvern thrashing in the waters?”

Annette briefly returned a portion of the ferocity in Felix’s grasp. “They weren’t trying to kill him, Felix. You know that, even Sylvain knows that.”

“They weren’t cornered. When we find them… We’ll corner them. Byleth is too damn smart not to, with the resources we have. She’ll move the continent if she has to.” Felix levelled his gaze directly at Annette. “We’ll corner them, and Seteth will lash out. So I need to be ready.”

Annette knew this fear. She knew its lies and its promises and its traps and how easy it was to indulge them. She knew the seductive feeling of identifying a problem and throwing all of her breath and blood into becoming its best solution.

She knew how much it could crush a soul when her best solution didn’t solve a thing.

* * * *

Annette put a hand to her head as she woke. She let out a low, weak whimper of discontent. Slight headache. That’s annoying. She’d probably need to refill on water before…

Wait. Woke from what?

Annette bolted upright in her seat and looked around. The library. She was in the library. Most of the candles besides her own had burned out. There were no other occupants.

Looking down with slightly less alarm, a book open to perhaps the dozenth page out of several hundred stared back at her, the words still as indistinct to her as before. She shut it with more force than necessary and let her forehead thunk into the sturdy binding.

Oh yeah, headache.

Annette thunked her forehead against the book one more time for good measure. She deserved it for staying here this late again. Plus she still hadn’t found her answers.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway startled her out of her pity party. Shaking out her posture to something that would pass as normal, Annette wondered who else would have need of the library at this hour… whatever hour it might be now. Shoot, how long had she been out?

Candlelight crept in through the library entrance as the footsteps - from more than two feet, by the sound of it - drew closer. It wasn’t long before Seteth emerged into view, bearing a flame that lit the way for Cyril behind him. The younger man was laden with a sizable stack of tomes and larger swathes of parchment that could have been maps.

“Miss Annette,” Seteth said by way of acknowledgement, the mildest hint of surprise in his voice. “I haven’t seen you here this late since your academy days.”

“Hey Seteth. Hey Cyril,” she replied glumly. She refrained from adding that the only reason that was true was because they hadn’t been here for the past two nights.

Cyril kept walking until he found a table upon which he could deposit his burdens with a grunt. “Hey Annette.” He grabbed a book in each hand and started examining them.

Seteth made to follow, but he paused as he passed the table where Annette still sat, staring blankly at the book cover she had butted heads with not long ago. There was a moment of silence, save for Cyril slowly muttering to himself.

From over her shoulder, Seteth spoke again. “Was your reading session… productive?”

“Not really. I kinda got, er, stuck. It’s giving me a headache, so I think I’m done for the day.” Annette continued, bitterly, “It’s not like I was accomplishing anything anyway.”

“...I see,” the advisor replied, his voice falling slightly. “Would you like me to return that book to its shelf, then? Cyril and I have come to do similarly for these ones here.” He gestured to the stack of papers and bindings.

Annette sighed. “No, I’ll do it myself.”

Scooting her chair back, Annette rose and carried  _ The Pain of Separation _ back to where she found it, in the section dedicated to the works of Saint Cichol.

She walked back toward the center of the library, where Cyril was muttering to himself near the book stack. Upon getting closer, she realized he was sounding out the book titles.

“The Jo-ur-nee of Saint… Inde-ch.” He was close, but he pronounced the “ch” in Indech like it was the word “chew.”

Annette mustered a bit of cheer. “Almost! That one is tricky, it’s actually Saint Indech, with a hard  _ kuh _ sound. It’s a name, so it kinda cheats.”

Cyril tilted his head. “Huh. Weird, but I guess that makes sense. I’ve heard his name before, around the monastery. Thanks, Annette.”

“Anytime!”

As Cyril set off to resume his duties, Annette took a moment to marvel at how far he’d come. From what Lysithea had told her, he hadn’t been able to read a single written word five years ago. Irregularities still tripped him up, but he was a quick learner. Annette wished her old study buddy could be here to see the progress he’d made, the work he was now capable of doing. She hadn’t received any news of her since…

Right.

Gronder.

The fog, the screaming, the chaos, Hanneman writhing on the ground in the clutches of shadows, Dimitri barely anything more than a shadow of death himself, out of control, leaving body after bloody body in his wake, and there in the midst of the warpath, impossibly still and  _ butchered _ , Raphael and Ignatz both…

And just as she’d thought they were all waking up from the nightmare, Rodrigue.

And now, Felix was...

“...ette?”

“H-huh?”

“Annette? Are you alright? You are shaking.”

Annette reeled away from cascading memories of fog and dread, returning to the present. She was indeed shaking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in…  _ one, two, three, four, five… _ and out…  _ one, two, three, four, five… _ Two more full, measured draughts and she had mostly calmed her body down.

Annette looked up at a deeply concerned Seteth. She wasn’t the one who needed that right now. “Sorry to worry you, I’m fine, it’s just… I should… I need to sleep.”

Seteth nodded. “I concur. Would you permit me to accompany you back to your quarters? You seem to have regained composure, but it would give me peace of mind to see you walk through your own door.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, I don’t want to distract you from your work.”

“Cyril is fully capable of seeing these items to their designated shelves. Wouldn’t you agree, Cyril?” Seteth looked back at his assistant.

The young man perked up from his most recent acquisition. “Yeah, I’ve got the hang of this. Want me to lock up?”

Seteth turned back to Annette, awaiting an answer. She mulled it over. If Seteth intended to chew her out for burning the midnight oil, he would have done so already. It would probably be a harmless enough walk. Maybe she could even ask him a question or two. He  _ was _ the archbishop’s advisor after all, surely he wouldn’t be too upset to lend an ear to her troubles.

“Okay. Thanks, Seteth.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Annette left her own candelabra in Cyril’s care, and before long she and Seteth had made it down to the first floor of the monastery. The reception hall was unsurprisingly empty. She realized she never did get the time of day (or night, rather) from Seteth. Oh well. At least it gave Annette space to think and to practice her first question.

What she did not practice was having Seteth begin his own question at the same time.

“Might I ask-”

“So I was wondering-”

There was an exchange of abrupt apologies. “Please continue,” Seteth appealed, not quite as stern as he usually was, “I did not mean to cut your own inquiry short.”

“No no, go ahead, what did you want to ask me?” Even though Annette had been on the cusp of seeking help, she still wasn’t sure how much she was willing to open up. Maybe it would be better to wait until after the headache was gone.

Seteth nodded. To himself, it looked like. “Very well. I couldn’t help but notice the book you had selected this evening was of a rather… profound nature. You appeared to be frustrated with it, so I thought I might ask what it was you wished to find within those pages.” His eyes drifted to the side momentarily. “I am somewhat familiar with the contents.”

Oh. Well then. Looks like now is the time after all. 

Annette chuckled mirthlessly, in spite of herself. “Funny, that’s what my question was about anyways.”

Seteth gave her space to continue. Annette became aware that they had stopped walking at some point, not far from the exit to the old house classrooms. She took a steadying breath. She could trust Seteth with this.

“What do you do when someone’s in pain and nothing you try will fix it?”

Seteth slowly tapped a finger on his thin green beard. For several moments, Annette saw nothing but a man looking far off into the distance, heard nothing but the dying echoes of her own words. Then…

“Perhaps we should sit down.”

Annette nodded. “Sure.”

They both eased into opposite wooden seats at the nearest table. Seteth threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on them. Annette drummed her own fingers against her forearm. Had she asked the right question? Maybe there had been a better way to-

“Forgive me for asking, but… this someone wouldn’t happen to be Felix, would it?”

It was. “So, you’ve noticed too, huh?”

“From my limited perspective, he seems to be isolating himself even more so than usual in the week since his father passed, myriad hours at the training grounds notwithstanding. Flayn tells me he wouldn’t even acknowledge her presence when she approached.”

“And when he’s not killing himself out there, he’s killing himself in his room,” Annette added. “I can barely get through to him. He’s lost interest in food as anything but fuel, he doesn’t want to practice magic, and Felix was never much of a talker and now he just… doesn’t. I’ve been trying to learn how to help him climb out of whatever pit he’s dug for himself, but all that’s done is made me feel even more helpless when it doesn’t work.” Her throat tightened on the word helpless. She  _ hated _ that feeling, had hated it all her life.

Annette didn’t mention the songs. Those were private. Felix had seemed to tolerate her whimsical melodies and inappropriately bright lyrics, the only kind she had ever known how to give life to. He had reached for her hand once.

He had dropped it before she could reach back.

Seteth stirred, bringing Annette’s attention back to the reception hall. “I have another question to ask of you. Perhaps several.”

Annette met his gaze. “Sure.”

“What would you say defines Felix? What is his most essential quality?”

To the vast majority of Fodlan, the most distinguishing quality Felix had was his ability to swing his sword through vital body parts without breaking stride. To a smaller but no less important subset, it was his lack of social decorum. To a smaller circle still, it was his drive to become the strongest, most dangerous version of himself possible.

Annette did not belong to any of those groups.

“He cares,” Annette replied immediately. “Or, more specifically, he cares about people’s safety and well-being. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it, he’s the best person I know at showing it. When you’re down and out, he stays with you, selflessly.”

He stays with  _ me _ , she wanted to say. He even likes it, the crazy fool.

Seteth probed again, “Have you considered that Felix might inherit his difficulty in self-expression from his father?”

“Only all the time.”

“Indeed,” Seteth replied with a touch of amusement. His face straightened out in time for the next question. “When you are with Felix, does he encourage you?”

“Sometimes, yes…” A few cherished moments came to mind, and Annette suddenly realized she was thinking about herself a lot more than she had signed up for. “Where is this going, Seteth? I thought I was supposed to be asking you for advice.”

“Please, bear with me. I find that questions are often the most powerful form of discovery.” Annette was fairly certain she had heard that from Professor Byleth before. She wondered who had thought of it first. “When he encourages you, what does he say?”

Annette thought of long evenings of study that only ended when Felix told her she would be useless the next day if she didn’t stop. She thought of awkward, precious pleas for her to keep singing. She thought of how Felix insisted that the way her father treated her was not her fault, that it never had been. She thought of how he continually put himself in harm’s way for her, and the message that never failed to send.

“He reminds me... not to destroy myself. That I’m worth caring for. That for all my silliness and selfishness, I’m… enough.” Yes, that was the word he often used. Enough. Annette liked the way it sounded coming out of his mouth. It felt grounded. Firm. Whole. Warmer than anything else Faerghus had ever bestowed.

Seteth gave her a soft smile. “That is truly wonderful to hear, Annette. Truth be told, it far exceeds the response I anticipated. Nevertheless,” he continued, the smile losing some of its light, “I fear that my point is only strengthened by it.”

It was Annette’s turn to ask a question. “Which is…?”

“I have learned,” Seteth began, the weight of choice coming from every word, “that sometimes, the encouragement we offer to those we love is the very same kind we crave ourselves.”

Annette’s eyes widened. The gears in her head turned, and she would have followed that though to its conclusion even if Seteth hadn’t said it out loud.

“I wonder how many years Felix has waited to hear that same unconditional approval from his own father… and how torturous it must be to have that hope stolen from him.”

For a while, no one spoke. Annette let the implications of their conversation hang in the air and whir through her mind, her headache all but forgotten. For the first time in a week, she had a solid idea of what Felix needed from her. All that was left was to decide what to do about it. Or rather… on second thought, that was the wrong question.

Annette stood up from the table. “Seteth.”

“Yes, Annette?”

“I have somewhere I need to be.”

Someone she needed to be with.

“I do believe you’re right. But before you leave, would you humor me with one more request?”

Annette, already half-turned toward the dormitories, paused. “What’s that?”

“Please drink some water, and be sure to get adequate rest. I have it on good authority that you are worth caring for.”

Annette smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. “Thanks Seteth. I will.”

* * * *

Despite Annette’s slightly unhealthy appetite for book learning, when it came to the attributes of the goddess, she was no more informed than most mages. There was one point, however, that she understood quite well. Or at least, it was true to her and no one had yet proven otherwise.

The goddess had a strange sense of humor.

It was the only way she could make sense of the irony that Seteth now both aggravated Felix’s anxieties and armed her against them.

“How do you feel?” Annette asked, hardly daring to believe they were at a point where she could now be this direct.

She felt Felix shift uncomfortably. “How do I… What, you mean now?”

“Yes, now. Especially now.” They’d been working on this. It was hard and it was disorienting to step back and reflect and try to understand themselves, especially for Felix. But, to his credit, the man gave no further protests. His brows came together and the annoyance was plain despite the dimness of the training grounds, but Annette could tell he was giving this a genuine try. He was trying for her.

That alone was enough to lift her spirits, just a bit.

“Tense.” Felix finally managed. “Wound up. Almost hungry.”

Annette gave his hand another squeeze. “Keep going.”

“It’s like…” Felix looked back toward the bench. He slipped his hand out of hers (which was fine, Annette told herself) and picked up the long wooden instrument he had been practicing with. “I feel like I’m a bow, and my string has been pulled taut. I’ve felt... useless these past few weeks, pretending like I can be a Duke. But then Seteth and Flayn took off, and now the archer has notched an arrow and given their bow direction. Purpose. Maybe it’s wrong, but I feel more focused now than I did before this conflict began.”

Under different circumstances, Annette would have wondered when Felix Fraldarius learned to be so downright poetic.

“But after it’s all over with, after… whatever happens… then what? A bow and arrow is useless with no target. I don’t… I don’t know what I’ll do once the fighting’s done. I don’t know who I’ll be without somewhere to point my blade.”

This wasn’t the first time Felix had called himself a weapon. Annette would never scold Felix for sharing these things when she asked, but she hated that comparison. She hated what it reduced him to.

“Felix, I understand feeling useless. But you’re wrong. You’re not a weapon, you’re Felix Fraldarius, my best friend in the whole wide world. And target or no target, you’re enough for me.”

Felix looked at Annette. Really looked at her. No scowl, no thinly veiled glare, no self-satisfied smirk. Just Felix, with all his trepidation and vulnerability. Annette saw how desperately he wanted to believe. But this was Felix Fraldarius still, and words, for all their value, were not the way to his heart.

So Annette followed through.

“You weren’t born holding a sword, were you?”

Felix’s eyes went to the ground. “I was an heir to Fraldarius. Close enough.”

“ _ Felix. _ ”

“...Fine. No, I wasn’t.”

“So you had to learn. You watched, and you listened, and you practiced and worked yourself to the bone until you became the best swordsman on the continent.”

“Second-best,” Felix muttered. Annette pointedly ignored this.

“Well, sounds to me like you’ve got some more learning to do.” Annette took hold of Felix’s hand again. “ _ We’ve _ got some more learning to do. When this is all behind us, we’re going to discover who Felix is when no one else needs to die to protect the ones they love. Together.”

Felix was quiet for a good moment. He looked at Annette’s hand in his, gently running his thumb over the back of it. She wondered if he found her hands just as firm, just as whole, just as warm as she found his.

A softness slowly spread across Felix’s features, like a sunset getting cozy for the evening. “When you put it like that… it doesn’t sound so bad.”

Annette smiled. Felix leaned in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap this was hard.
> 
> It was the good kind of hard, but still, it took a lot out of me. I went through more reworks here than I have for any previous chapters. It probably has to do with the fact that Felix and Annette were my gateway into the world of FE3H fanfiction, and their dynamic continues to make me smile through the work of multiple fantastic authors (which my bookmarks list can testify to). So I guess my self-expectations were particularly high. It made me want a beta reader pretty badly.
> 
> For those wondering, Gautier Cheese Gratin is a dish you can make in-game. It is liked by Felix and disliked by Annette.
> 
> I want to emphasize how encouraging the comments have been so far. I have, on multiple occasions, gone back to re-read them and smile and remind myself that yes, people do in fact enjoy what I am writing and yes, people do seem to want more despite any flaws I may sweat over. Thanks to everyone who has taken time to verbalize their thoughts, and as always, I remain open to any kind of feedback, good or bad.
> 
> Finally, I hope I'm not overstaying my welcome by plugging [a Seteth/Annette support chain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24149212/chapters/58149736) that I imagined a while ago. Consider it extra background that helps explain why Annette and Seteth are comfortable talking to each other.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone :)


	9. Doubt

Once upon a time, Cichol and Indech came to this place to fish.

Seteth frowned. There were two inaccuracies in that opening already, beginning with the first word.

For starters, they had made the journey here as often as the region’s torrential weather would allow. Even a thousand-odd years ago, this had been a place where the ocean threw its excess into the land until the clouds burst open and the sun lamented its impotence. The rain seeped into the land’s every pore, and a thick fog often obscured one’s vision of anything more than a few paces away. But, during the summers especially, Cichol and Indech took every opportunity to travel here and while away the hours.

Indech had never fished though. That was Cichol’s purview. While he found a comfortable spot and cast his line, Indech busied his hands with knitting or weaving or any number of quiet activities, depending on whatever equipment he had carted along with him. Sometimes they talked. Every time was intimate.

Those had been pleasant days, warm and untroubled.

Of particular note had been the day on which Indech completed a magnificent cape and gifted it to his brother. Cichol hadn’t known that this labor of several weeks was being crafted for him. He had worn it ever since.

The original had been eroded by time, of course. But the design could be replicated, and even after Indech closed himself off from humanity completely, his brother had befriended many a tailor capable of weaving that cherished memory anew.

Perhaps it was Seteth’s turn to weave an old memory into new threads. He pondered a different opener. In days of old, when the goddess walked the land, Cichol and Indech…

A raindrop tickled Seteth’s cheek. He blinked.

One raindrop heralded the coming arrival of thousands. Seteth rolled his stiff shoulders, glancing at his meager catch - a single loach - and frowned again.

He had been frowning frequently as of late.

“Father,” Flayn intoned from where she sat beside him, struggling to shape her hair back into the lengthy curls she so favored, “We should head back to the cave, don’t you think?”

“I have only caught one fish,” Seteth replied. He shifted his grip on the lance-turned-fishing-rod that he had cobbled together from their meager supplies. The good news had been that the frequent rains pushed up no shortage of worms which he could use for bait. The bad news was that he’d had to scrounge up worms for the past several mornings before having a chance to eat.

“One shall be plenty,” Flayn said brightly. Thank the goddess for her enduring cheer. “If you stay here, your clothes will become absolutely drenched, and we have none to spare.”

Seteth sighed. Loathe as he was to admit it, she had a fair point. The coming rain would do no favors for their attire, and every item they had to their name was precious. “Very well. Come, Celestine.”

The man gathered up his line. The girl gathered up his catch. The wyvern gathered up her feet, and they all began walking.

No one spoke. The sounds were of early raindrops tapping the shore. Of the wind licking at distant trees and not-so-distant folds of clothing. Of beastly footfalls muffled by the damp shores. 

Seteth was tired. There were many things for a man in his position to be tired of, to be worn down by. He and Flayn lacked anything soft to rest on, and so they made the most of their cloaks and Celestine’s warmth. Rhea’s murder continued to mystify him and evade justice. The air here was cold, and Flayn for all her gifts could not sustain a fire in her palms indefinitely. They were hunted by the combined efforts of all of Fodlan. There were no privies. The sun was hidden, day after day. The list dragged on.

But most of all, Seteth was tired of not knowing what to do.

The cave was not far from the shore. Even so, Seteth and Flayn had to shake some moisture from their hair and garments by the time they made it inside. Celestine shook out her wings and blew a great gust in their direction, which managed to draw a sweet peal of laughter from Flayn even as she was forced to gather her hair once again. Seteth smiled. 

“Don’t encourage her, Flayn. She’ll blow you right off your feet if you let her.”

Flayn returned the smile, but more mischievously. “Two can play at that game, Father. I shall topple Celestine right back onto her tail if she tries anything as brazen as that.”

Seteth could have sworn he saw the wyvern roll her eyes as she licked her wings.

The man chuckled and ruffled his daughter’s hair in spite of her efforts to organize it. “I’m sure you will.”

For all the pain and woe he had endured in recent days, Flayn… Cethleann... was still his precious daughter. As long as she was with him, nothing could steal his resolve to see her safe, not the cold, not the gray, not the uncertainty, not anything.

Still, he should do something about the cold.

Seteth struck flint to stone and ignited pieces of their small supply of firewood. He and Flayn had constructed a shoddy spit out of mud and sticks, and they took turns attending to their singular fish as it cooked over the flame. Together, tucked against the settled form of Celestine, they warded off the cold and all its damp despair.

Eventually the wyvern leaned her great snout over Seteth’s shoulder to get a better whiff of the loach. Seteth had to shoo her away as Flayn giggled again. “I think she’s trying to tell us it’s ready, Father.”

They gave thanks. Seteth made up for his disappointment in his meager catch (perhaps if he’d paid more attention to Leonie’s methods…) by taking satisfaction in the knife he now withdrew from Celestine’s saddle pack to cut the fish. An afternoon of preparation many moons ago had paid off bountifully, considering the circumstances. Without the spare fishing line, knife, flint, and select other tools that Cyril had fetched from Seteth’s office before their escape, food would have been significantly more difficult to obtain.

Flayn started to act furtive as the two of them began eating. He caught a question in her eyes once as he handed her another piece of the loach, and she averted her gaze. Usually she was the one to begin conversation during these bare mealtimes, to remark on some small wondrous creature she had happened upon or mention some story that Seteth hadn’t realized she had read. But as the minutes stretched out, Seteth became increasingly convinced that something was bothering his daughter.

“You seem pensive,” he began after finishing off the last of his meal. He had given Flayn a slightly larger portion. She had objected the first time he tried to do this, so now he made the inequality discreet.

Flayn continued to chew, but nodded slowly.

Seteth waited.

His daughter finished her portion of loach, and still she said nothing, but her body shifted in uncomfortable ways that had nothing to do with the fact that they were sitting against the drying scales of a wyvern in a damp cave. Seteth chanced another probe.

“Is there… something you wish to talk about?”

Flayn started to glance at him, but she only made it as far as his boots before looking back toward the base of their small fire. “I am not sure you would wish to hear it.”

Seteth set the skeletal remains of the loach down at his feet and leaned toward his daughter to place a hand on her shoulder. “Please, tell me. Whatever it is, I will gladly listen.”

As he withdrew his hand, the girl slowly bobbed her head from left to right a few times, thinking it over. It was a cute habit she had picked up from her mother. Oh, how dearly Seteth missed her these days, like how a sailor misses a lighthouse when they are lost at sea. Flayn would not have hesitated to open up to her.

“I have been thinking,” she began, surprising Seteth somewhat, “about the ones who attacked us in Charon.”

“Please do not worry yourself over them, dear Flayn. If we are attacked again, I-” Seteth paused for breath, and to correct himself. “We will fend them off, just as before. Such fiends will _not_ take you away, not while I draw breath.”

“Your assurances are a great comfort,” Flayn replied without smiling.

“...but something still troubles you?”

What embers remained of their fire flickered in Flayn’s uncertain eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I…” Seteth dammed up a flood of questions and anxiety that he could never quite seem to contain when he saw hints of something breaking in his daughter’s world. Patience. Let her speak as she wishes. “I would hear it,” he finally managed.

Perhaps Flayn noticed his efforts, for she graced him with a small sidelong smile before her face darkened again. Seteth found himself unusually aware of the sounds around him while he practiced patience that made him feel almost as saintly as the Church of Seiros made him out to be. A tiny piece of burnt wood rolled off of the center of the pile. The rain shifted in volume slightly as the wind took sheets of rain and threw them about carelessly. His steed exhaled a breath full of casual might.

“I have been thinking,” his daughter ventured. Seteth’s attention honed in like Celestine before a lethal dive, and he braced himself further against the dam.

“What if,” she continued, “the assailants who found us at Charon were not sent by the professor and her allies?”

The pressure behind the dam fizzled away in disappointment. Seteth sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit older than most of the bridges in Fodlan.

“Flayn, I do not mean to repay your openness with too stern a rebuttal, but we have been over this. We were ambushed too quickly. We were not followed, and I never told a soul about our exit strategy, so there is only one logical explanation. The betrayal was premeditated, and troops were likely deployed to all of the towns surrounding Garreg Mach in the event that we escaped.”

Flayn wore a thin-lipped expression as she listened. “You have explained this in detail before, yes. But…”

“But?”

“You remember the weapons, yes?”

“All too vividly.” His wounds had mostly healed with Flayn’s expert help, but his flank and back still gave him a raw twinge if he cast his line too enthusiastically.

“So even you must have wondered about the scythe? The same kind of frightful tool wielded by the Death Knight and his ilk at Remire Village?”

“The same kind your class brought back from Remire for study, yes. They have been at the monastery for years now.”

Flayn was energized by his apparent dismissal. “But we never made use of them in combat! Why would Byleth reverse course after holding them back during a literal continent-spanning war?”

Seteth was unfazed, and his face had gone stern. “To arouse the very suspicion you now give voice to. You underestimate that woman’s tenacity, Flayn. Clearly, she did not underestimate your compassion for her.”

“What are you-” Flayn had stood up, hands balled into indignant fists. “It is not a matter of compassion, merely-”

Seteth raised an eyebrow without meaning to.

Flayn folded her arms and glared. Suddenly, horrifyingly, she looked even more like her mother. “Hmph, fine, perhaps some of my suspicion is borne of my hope that professor Byleth is still our friend. At least I still harbor some. I cannot believe that you are so quick to label her an unflinching enemy, after all of our history together, despite unresolved questions of method and motive!”

“Enough!” Seteth yelled, balling his own fists over his knees. Celestine shifted beneath him, and he felt her breath on his back. Was it the lighting in the damp cave, or did his vision seem… untrustworthy? “It is of no consequence. I cannot fathom the path of that traitor’s thoughts, but I witnessed her murdering Rhea in the Goddess Tower mere steps away from me. I… I heard…”

Seteth tried not to hear.

“I saw…”

Seteth tried not to see.

“I smelled the blood. Rhea’s blood. My sister’s blood, carved out by that faceless wretch. For Sothis’ sake, Flayn, she tried to kill you too!”

Flayn remained uncomfortably quiet. Seteth struggled to regulate his own breathing and convince his senses to make sense again. He needed to control himself better than this. What if an enemy breached their place of hiding at this very moment? Seteth glanced toward the entrance as a meager voice interrupted his swirling headspace...

“I wonder if that’s true.”

...and slowly, painstakingly, he directed his gaze back at his nervous daughter.

“You what?” His words were ice.

“I wonder,” Flayn repeated, looking at him directly now, “if Byleth truly meant to kill me, back at Garreg Mach, or… or if she swung to injure Celestine’s wings and ground us instead.”

Her suggestion defied belief. Was this the rare drawback to his daughter’s boundless optimism? “You cannot be serious.”

“And that’s not all!” She grew bolder now as her words poured forth like soldiers unexpectedly surging over a hilltop. “I have been dwelling on an uncomfortable possibility for days now, and it is past time I spoke my mind. Tell me, father, in the time since her rescue from Enbarr, did you ever once hear Rhea refer to myself or the professor as ‘child?’”

If her previous suggestion defied belief, the shadows cast by this one swallowed it up its chances entirely. “What on earth are you implying, Flayn!? You go too far!”

“Do I now? I acknowledge that this will be ever so painful for you to consider, but please try for a moment. The return of someone thought to be lost, after a long period of absence, combined with unusual behavior… does it not remind you of other tragic events?”

A thousand indiscriminate curses on this whole blasted circumstance. For as much pain as Seteth now felt, as much anger that burned in his veins and threatened to choke away his reason, a seed had now been planted. It scared Seteth more than anything in recent memory. Because despite every frustrated yearning that told him to mount up and kill the traitor this very instant, logistics be damned, Flayn’s words carried the suffocating weight of this small seed.

The seed’s name was doubt.

When _was_ the last time he had heard Rhea call anyone "child?"

When _was_ the last time her eyes had brimmed with joy?

And a new growth, springing from that vicious seed: why had Byleth not killed him too at the Goddess Tower?

Sothis knows he gave her chances. She had taken none of them.

Seteth leaned forward heavily and wiped sweat from his forehead. “No more of this madness. So long as we are within the expansive reach of Byleth and her allies, you are in dire peril. No amount of wild speculation will change that.”

“Then why speculate? We should send a message to someone we can trust and start to-”

“Someone we can trust!? Flayn, as of late that already selective list has been reduced to naught but the people in this very cave! Besides, if we send a message, it could be traced. That is a risk I cannot take.”

“And if I am considering taking that risk myself?”

Seteth was on his feet in an instant. “Unacceptable. Under no circumstances! You are not to hail another soul without my permission, are we understood, Cethleann?” His voice cracked on the final syllable.

A fierce emerald glare met him in reply. This one was entirely, mercifully, unlike her mother’s. 

But he didn’t know what to do against it.

“...understood, _brother_.” Flayn turned swiftly to make her way around a still-agitated Celestine.

Seteth’s feet moved involuntarily to keep her in sight as she lit a flame in her palm (much larger than usual, it seemed) and marched toward the deeper recesses of their retreat. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Wherever you are not!”

“Flayn- Cethleann, I forbid you from walking further than where I can see you!”

His daughter wheeled around suddenly, bringing those emerald beacons to bear again. “That is always the way of things, isn’t it? Ever since I woke from my long slumber, you have been caging me in whichever set of walls is most agreeable at the time. Now is no different.”

Seteth floundered. “Y-You must understand, there have always been those who wish you harm you, and I only worry-”

“Ahah! The ocean calls the sky blue! Do you think I have never worried for _your_ safety, hm? You think I never wished that you stayed with me instead of leaving on whatever dangerous mission you needed to be on that day?” Flayn was practically in his face now, a disconcerting feeling for the man that had stood taller than her for over a millennium. The fire threatened to torch him.

“Cethleann, I am your father, and it is my duty to-”

“And sometimes I am tempted to wish you were not! Then I might have some measure of freedom, instead of these chains painted with your _duty_ to protect me!”

And with that, Cethleann stormed off deeper into the cave until her father could no longer make out her light.

  
  


Cichol was quiet for a long moment.

  
  


Or perhaps an hour.

  
  


He heard nothing but his daughter’s words.

  
  


Eventually, with a skull that felt battered and a mouth that felt more dry than the humidity should have allowed, Seteth folded against his steed in abject defeat. As he groaned and massaged his temples, Celestine leaned over and sniffed him several times.

“I don’t know, old girl,” Seteth replied. “I just don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated Merry Christmas, everyone! I know that message is completely incongruous with the outcome of this chapter, but nevertheless, I hope those of you who follow Christ had a joyful celebration of his birth.
> 
> If your time has not been joyful as of late, then I pray you still have hope for the future. If this story is some small part of that hope, well... that's all I can ask.
> 
> Stay safe and sleep well, everyone!


End file.
